


new clothes, bloody nose

by dutty (vodka)



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: M/M, Non-Linear Narrative, Public Sex, Rentboys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-26
Updated: 2014-12-31
Packaged: 2018-02-06 07:22:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 22,295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1849360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vodka/pseuds/dutty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The one where Zayn is an escort and Harry happens.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 1

**Author's Note:**

> Contains some Matty Healy/Harry and Ben Winston/Zayn, naturally. Title from The 1975's 'M.O.N.E.Y.'

Zayn wakes up to Louis shaking him violently by the shoulder. 

It’s too bright, white sunlight bleeding in through the open curtains. Zayn squeezes his eyes shut and burrows his face deeper into the pillow. He’s got the kind of headache that pounds behind the eyes, his stomach lurching with the burn of last night’s tequila threatening to bubble back up his throat along with whatever greasy shit he’d eaten before passing out. 

“C’mon, mate. You’ve got to get up,” Louis says, shaking him again, gentler this time. 

Zayn shoves back at him blindly, stubbornly keeping his eyes closed. “Fuck off, man. Christ.” 

“Not until you get your pretty arse up and out of bed,” Louis says, much too chipper for this hour as he gives Zayn’s shoulders one last shake. His Vans squeaking against the hardwood floor as he moves away. Zayn can hear him graciously drawing the curtains, shutting out the light that’s been seeping through the thin skin of Zayn’s eyelids. 

Zayn finally opens his eyes. 

He’s back at his flat like he’d hoped he was, in his own bed with his own sheets twisted around his waist. Louis’ stood at the foot of the bed, dressed in the denim jacket they keep passing back and forth, but Zayn’s certain it was originally his because it’s Acne and Louis could never afford it unless it was an exceptionally lucky charity shop find. But Zayn never brings it up; what’s his is Louis’ and what’s Louis’ is his. 

The worn leather straps of Louis’ backpack hang off his narrow shoulders, dark circles beneath his eyes. He looks just about as awful as Zayn knows he does, the telltale signs of a long night written across both their faces with puffy eyes and bristly five o’clock shadows. 

Zayn blinks the sleep away from his eyes, rubbing at them with the back of his hand. “You look like shit,” he says with a yawn. 

Louis rolls his eyes, running a hand through his hair. “As if you’ve got any room to talk. See if I make sure you get up on time again, you ungrateful twat. I had to get up early enough to come round before work.”

Zayn remembers now, sending Louis a surprisingly coherent text, begging him to make sure Zayn was up early because Zayn’s mum is visiting London today and he’s promised to take her out to lunch, a proper lunch somewhere nice where they serve sparkling water, maybe surprise her with a trip to Selfridges if there’s time because it’s been too long since Zayn’s spoilt her with something nice, and Zayn’s nothing if not a mummy’s boy. And then he’d gingerly put his phone down on the lip of the tub and proceeded to dry heave over the toilet until tears were running down his cheeks. 

He looks at his watch. He’s got a couple hours to get ready, clean his flat up enough that his mum won’t delay their date to sort his laundry or wipe down his kitchen. 

He’s wearing the Rolex Ben’d got him for his birthday in January, the face a rich blue circled by 18K of yellow gold and stainless steel. He’d worn it last night because Ben likes to see it on his wrist, always asks where it is if Zayn shows up without it like it’s some weird symbol of ownership. 

Zayn doesn’t think he’ll ever really get used to the fact that he owns a watch worth £8, 000. Back in Bradford he’d have to be stupid to wear a Rolex out at night, would probably get knifed for it on a dark road after getting off the bus home. He looks around his loft, his £3, 600 per month Soho loft, and thinks for the millionth time that it’s mental that anyone could make so much money sucking dick for a living. 

“I’ll put the kettle on,” Louis says. 

“When do you have to be at work?” Zayn asks, groggily following Louis into the kitchen like this is Louis’ flat and not his. Louis works at a record shop, gets to fuck about and listen to music all day and post pictures on the shop’s Instagram.

“Soon,” Louis says, gesturing vaguely as he slides his backpack to the floor. Louis’ never on time for anything and work is hardly an exception, especially now that he’s managed to get into his boss, Niall’s good books, the two of them becoming good enough mates that Louis gets away with bloody murder and even gets invited to have a few pints in Shoreditch once the shift is over. “Have enough time for a brew.” 

Louis knows Zayn’s flat like the back of his hand, and it’s nice to just sit there, watch Louis open the right cupboards to get mugs and teabags, picking Zayn’s favourite cup without asking and making his tea just how he knows Zayn takes it. 

It’s weird to think they’ve only known each other three years, Louis telling Zayn his Spiderman t-shirt was sick as he took the seat next to him on their first day at King’s College. 

It feels like they’ve known each other their entire lives, like they’d grown up in the same neighbourhood and been there for each other’s first kisses and broken bones. Louis gives Zayn that tight feeling in his chest that he gets when he sees his sisters and cousins after too long away from home, that feeling of belonging and familiarity where you’re with someone you don’t have to explain yourself to because they just _get it_. 

It’s funny, then, that neither Zayn nor Louis has completed the Film Studies degree they’d started; Louis’d dropped out because he couldn’t balance school and work and a girlfriend and going out every night. Zayn hadn’t been much better; he’d been a virgin with a yin-yang tattoo who was finally starting to dress well after wearing a uniform up until year 11 and dressing horribly for the better part of sixth form when left to his own devices. 

But London was different and Zayn was realising he was becoming different, too. People were suddenly interested in him; he wasn’t just an awkward Muslim boy with a Pakistani father and a bad haircut, he was good looking now, racially ambiguous with an increasing number of tattoos and a sharp leather jacket and even sharper jaw. He’d got caught up in the attention, lost his virginity at the first party he’d got invited to and started fucking and drinking and failing classes for the first time in his life.

And then everything’d gone to shit.

“So, how was the party?” Louis asks, sliding Zayn’s mug in front of him. He stays on the other side of the island, fingers curled around his own steaming mug and looking at Zayn expectantly. 

Zayn shrugs, slumping as low as the barstool will allow him, the bare skin of his thigh noisily sticking and unsticking to the faux leather. “Was alright. Got into a row with Ben, don’t really remember much else, if I’m honest.” 

“That sucks,” Louis says as he sips his tea. “What’d you fight about?”

Zayn shrugs again. 

“Did you at least meet anyone famous? Ellie Goulding or Ed Sheeran or something?” 

“Honestly, mate, I don’t really remember,” Zayn laughs, because when he doesn’t remember things, it means he’d probably done something stupid and purposefully tucked the memories away somewhere in the back of his mind. Fuck. He wonders if he should call Ben and apologise for anything; Ben’s the biggest spender of his clients. It’d be a shame to just let him slip away, especially if Zayn’d done anything to bring him professional ruin. 

“I think I met Simon Cowell.” 

“Yeah?” Louis makes a face. “Is he as a big a prick in real life?” 

“No, he was pretty nice, actually. So how was your night? You look a bit rough.” 

“Got a call from my supposed real father. You know how that goes. Couldn’t sleep after.” 

“Sorry.”

Louis makes a face and then his phone vibrates loudly in his pocket, a Blink 182 song blearing to life. “Shit, it’s Niall,” he says as he answers, swiping his mug off the island and going into the living room to take the call. 

Zayn closes his eyes, presses his palms into his eyes. 

His head still hurts and he’s worried he’s going to be sick at lunch, doesn’t even have an appetite for the tea he’s struggling to swallow down. He can feel the kind of regret sinking in that only comes after a night of drinking too much, where he can’t stop thinking of how it’d tear his family apart to know what he’s really been doing in London, that he’s so hungover his mum will probably be able to tell and she always hates that, that he hasn’t made any new art in two months even though that’s meant to be his passion because he’s been too busy fucking for money. 

He looks down at himself, skin and tattoos everywhere his boxers don’t cover, fading bruises on his hips that are shaped like fingers. Seeing them makes him aware of the ache in his side, how he feels that sore openness that means he’d got fucked last night. But he doesn’t remember any of it, assumes Ben had got them a nice hotel room and bent him over the bed before sending him off in a taxi even though they’d had a fight. 

It mustn’t have been a bad fight, then, Zayn imagines. But he’ll still ring Ben to apologise, just in case. He buries his face in his hands. 

“Apparently, I’m meant to open the shop today,” Louis says, hurriedly slinging his bag over his shoulder and putting his mug in the sink. “Should’ve been there like fifteen minutes ago.” 

Zayn cracks a smile. “You’re going to get fired someday, mate.” 

“Nah, Niall loves me. I’ve figured out the way to his heart is through his stomach, buy him lunch and he’ll forgive almost anything.” 

“And you’re relying on that instead of getting your arse to work on time?” Zayn laughs. 

“If I get fired I’ll just become a rent boy like you, get my own sick loft.” 

Zayn flinches. Louis knows about what Zayn does, has known from the time Zayn’d fucked his first client when he’d signed at the agency—a middle-aged bank manager with a thing for ‘exotic’ boys who’d wanked watching Zayn take a piss. Zayn’d needed to tell someone because he felt like he’d lose his mind otherwise, having a secret like this. 

Louis’ always been vaguely supportive; they’ve never talked about it in any great detail. Zayn’s always had the feeling Louis has never been entirely comfortable with the whole thing despite having a laugh at the occasional story that’s too funny not to share or letting Zayn vent about a shitty client over a bottle of wine. There’s always been a lingering ‘I don’t understand why you’re doing this’ that even bleeds through his responses to Zayn’s texts when he needs to let someone to know where he is in case he doesn’t make it back home. 

It makes Zayn angry if he thinks about it too long, long enough to realise it hurts, and it’s so intangible that he often wonders if he’s imagining it, projecting his own anxieties over his shortcomings onto someone else. 

Louis looks down at his feet, a ‘sorry’ hanging in the air between them. Zayn nods, sipping his tea, suddenly needing something to do with his hands. 

“I’ll see you later, bro,” Louis says. Zayn nods again and Louis leaves, the front door softly clicking shut behind him.

Zayn picks his clothes off the floor and puts them away, tidying up the kitchen and emptying ashtrays and taking the rubbish out so that his mum doesn’t worry and offer to visit more often to help him clean. He leaves a message on Ben’s answering machine, a simple ‘sorry about last night, call me back when you can’. 

He’s pulling a shirt over his head when his mum knocks at the door, his hair still wet from the shower. She pulls him into a tight hug as soon as he answers, her hair tickling his nose. 

“Have you lost weight?” she frowns as she pulls away, pinching his side through his shirt. “You need to come home more, eat proper food. I made chicken wings yesterday but the girls and your dad ate them all or I would’ve brought you some.”

“It’s alright, Mum, I promise,” Zayn laughs, his heart already feeling ten times lighter in his chest. Nothing grounds him like his family does, even if it’s just hearing their voices telling him about their day on the phone. With them he’s just _Zain_ and that’s enough. 

She gives him a look like she knows something’s wrong, because mums always know, taking in his puffy eyes and chapped bottom lip with a small frown. “How’s the art been going?” 

“Good,” Zayn says quickly, reaching for a coat off the rack. “Have a show coming up in a few weeks, been busy with that.” 

He hopes she doesn’t ask to see any of the pieces he’s supposedly working on for this imaginary show, because he hasn’t done more than the odd doodle on the back of a KFC receipt. But she doesn’t, just gives him some words of encouragement and tells him how proud they all are of him as she links their arms and leads him towards the lift because she’s starving. 

It’s Zayn’s turn to pick where they eat. He settles on Berners Tavern; it’s fancy enough to make his mum flustered and close enough that Zayn doesn’t fear vomiting on the pavement on the way over. They talk about the wedding she’d come down to London for, an old schoolmate getting remarried the evening before, and then they talk about everyone back home. Zayn’s family is big enough that it means he doesn’t have to say much about himself in between stories about his sisters and endless string of cousins and aunts, gets to lose himself in catching up as he tries to keep his wine and chicken paillard down. 

Afterwards, he walks her to Oxford Circus, hugging her tight until she bats at his chest, laughing and chastising him for trying to make her miss her train when she’s got work in the morning. Zayn’s sadder than he thought he would be as he watches her go, her hounds tooth coat disappearing into the bustling crowd. The smell of the perfume he’d got her for Christmas lingers until enough people have shoved past. 

Ben hasn’t returned his call and it’s setting up to rain.

So Zayn walks, hands tucked into his pockets, his feet carrying him with no real destination in mind. He doesn’t know why, but he’s not quite ready to go back home and lie in until someone rings him requesting his company. 

He drifts until he finds himself standing outside Soho Original Books, the familiar neon signs searing into the backs of his eyes where his headache still lingers. He drags his tongue across his bottom lip, contemplating the fat green arrow pointing towards the ‘private XXX’ booths downstairs. He’s never actually been particularly interested in venturing inside, but today he’s aimless and something’s telling him to go in and have a look. 

The interior is like any other small bookshop on the ground level, books stacked on shelves and tables. There aren’t many people milling about and Zayn finds the tension he’d been carrying in his shoulders slowly melting away. He’s always been comfortable in the presence of books, the quietness of sitting and reading, holding something in your hands and turning pages. 

He’s thumbing through a collection of vintage illustrated erotica when a sales assistant pops over and asks in a deep Northern accent, “Do you need help looking for anything?” 

Zayn looks up, ready to sheepishly smile and say he’s alright, but his heart leaps into his throat and not a sound comes out. 

Everything from last night comes rushing back all at once, the fight with Ben, the tequila shots, big green eyes—the big green eyes that are staring back at him right now, wide like they’ve seen a ghost. 

“Zayn?” Harry says, like he’d never expected to see Zayn again. 

Zayn’s feeling much the same. 

 

&&

 

Zayn doesn’t like going to events. He prefers the escort part of his job to be intimate: a nice dinner with his client and perhaps a business partner or two, trips to Paris spent shopping alone during the day and then holed up in a hotel room with a brilliant view of the Eiffel Tower, his new clothes doing the job of getting someone riled up enough to pull them off him. 

The one thing about Zayn that London couldn’t change is his awkwardness. He doesn’t always do well in big groups of people, the back of his neck damp with sweat under the smug gazes of co-workers at a fundraising ball who think they’ve got him figured out, because he’s too young and well-dressed and pretty to be anything but a gold digger or an escort. 

He’d told Ben repeatedly that he didn’t want to come to this party Syco Music—Simon Cowell, really, was throwing. Ben would bring it up as Zayn got out of bed to take a shower or as an aside when they were stuck in traffic in Ben’s Range Rover. Zayn would always dismiss it, saying he’d charge an arm and a leg if Ben made him come out and play arm candy in front of a bunch of celebrities and other important industry people. 

It turns out that Ben is quite fine with dropping £15, 000 for Zayn to hang off his arm for one night. Zayn grudgingly realises that filming boy bands and football documentaries is clearly a more lucrative career than he’d thought. 

So Zayn goes, puts on a nice Burberry shirt and fitted trousers and shaves his face clean because Ben likes it better that way. He doesn’t want to be here, forcing weak smiles at people he’s seen on T4 as Ben introduces them to Zayn like anyone cares at all. 

“You don’t have to look so excited,” Ben says sarcastically as Zayn downs half of his fourth or probably fifth Jack and Coke. He’s got his hand on Zayn’s lower back. “Do you know how many people would kill to be here?” 

“You knew I didn’t want to come,” Zayn says, and he could just hear his mum clicking her tongue at him in his head, berating him for how stubborn he can be. 

“I paid a lot for you to be here, Zayn,” Ben says, mouth hot on Zayn’s ear as he leans in closer. “Certainly enough for you to be a good boy instead of embarrassing me.” 

“You should know by now that I’m only a good boy in bed,” Zayn says back, sliding his empty glass on a passing waiter’s tray. “And even then, you’ve got to pay extra for that.” 

“You could at least try to enjoy yourself. Is this how you are when you drink? I don’t like it. I think you’ve had enough. I’m going to get you a glass of water.” 

Zayn rolls his eyes, folding his arms across his chest. “I’m not a bloody child, Ben.” 

“Then stop acting like one. Stay here, I’m getting you water. And then you’re going to act like your normal, delightful self and we’ll leave and I’ll take you to a nice hotel with a hot tub in the suite and let you work all of this pent-up frustration out on my cock.” 

Zayn feels a wave of arousal crashing in his stomach, his cheeks warm. He _does_ like fucking Ben. Ben’s got a nice cock and big hands and Zayn always feels _safe_ when Ben’s on top of him, like he’s taken care of, because even when Ben’s rough, he’s gentle enough, broad and sturdy and warm. When they’d first started their arrangement, Ben would lie back, tell Zayn to use him, and Zayn would, bounce on his cock like he loved him, pulling at his chest hair and marvelling in the way Ben’s eyes would take him in like he was something precious. 

He was stupid back then, still naïve to this business. Ben was nice to him and in his early thirties and attractive. Zayn would entertain the idea of them possibly falling for each other, Zayn quitting and Ben looking after him whilst he got his art career off the ground. But then Ben’d mentioned one day that he and his wife were getting separated and Zayn hadn’t even known that Ben was straight much less married. He’d always taken his ring off. 

It’d hardened Zayn, made him able to fuck anyone like he was in love with them without giving them any of his real self. He still slips a little, though, when it comes to Ben.

“Alright,” Zayn finally agrees. “But I’m charging you an extra £300 if you’re fucking me.” 

“No you’re not,” Ben smiles, giving Zayn’s hip a squeeze and moving away. 

Zayn stands there, awkward in this crowd of people, the room tilting if he moves his eyes too fast because he’s feeling the drinks more than he thought he would. He just wants to go home. He tries not to make eye contact with anyone, doesn’t want to invite attention or conversation.

But he notices two people out of the corner of his eye, standing out like sore thumbs.

They’ve both got mops of curly hair, looking more like they should be rolling up cigarettes outside a graffiti-covered dive bar in East London than rubbing elbows with Cheryl Cole and Caroline Flack. One of them’s got part of his head shaved, bags under his eyes like he hasn’t slept in weeks, a leather jacket hanging off him. He’s rolling his eyes at whatever the younger one is saying and Zayn can’t take his eyes off that one.

He’s got a baby face, looks kind of like Mick Jagger but softer, cute. He’s got a fit body, not too skinny or too muscular, tattoos visible through the sheer shirt he’s wearing. He’s got a scarf tied round his head, hair piled up high. It’s McQueen, Zayn knows, because one of his clients had gifted him the very same one that he’s yet to wear. He should look like a twat, masquerading about like he’s bloody Keith Richards, but there’s something sweet about him, something genuine. 

Zayn doesn’t know why he’s mentally waxing poetic about a stranger. It’s not like he’s never seen a pretty face before. 

He keeps watching them, though; watches Baby Jagger sip his ridiculous margarita as Leather Jacket talks at him, gesturing wildly. It’s Baby Jagger’s turn to roll his eyes now, and his mate scoffs, running a frustrated hand through his hair. It looks like they’re fighting, then. At least Zayn’s not the only one making scenes. 

Zayn forces himself to look away; he’s staring and he knows it, but when he inevitably allows himself to look again, Leather Jacket’s gone and Baby Jagger is staring right back at him. His wide mouth, pink quirks up into a small smile, and he’s got dimples as deep as the ocean. Zayn is fucked. 

“Hi,” Baby Jagger says when he’s close enough for Zayn to hear him, arm out for a handshake. Zayn takes it. “I’m Harry.” 

“Zayn.” 

“Guess you saw that just now,” Harry says, smile rueful. “He told me not to let him get pissed on the way over and then he kind of did anyway. You know how it is.” 

“I just had a similar conversation myself, actually,” Zayn says, not letting on that he was, is, the drunk one. He feels strangely at ease talking to Harry. He doesn’t know why, but puts it down to the fact that Harry’s fit and under forty. 

“He wanted to make a good impression; Simon just signed his band a couple days ago, The 1975. Have you heard of them?” 

“Er, no I haven’t. I Imagine it’s some kind of rock band?” 

“Something like that. Their song ‘The City’ is doing really well on radio right now,” Harry raises his eyebrows like he’s expecting Zayn to know what he’s talking about. 

Zayn doesn’t. 

“Don’t really listen to the radio much,” Zayn shrugs, interest slipping now that it seems Harry just wants to brag about his cool friend who’s in a cool band. “Are you like his manager or something?” 

Harry laughs. “No, we just… we’re _really_ good friends.” 

The way Harry says ‘really’ makes Zayn furrow his brow. “Yeah?” 

“No,” Harry laughs, leaning in. “We’ve been messing about for a few months, met him at a show and, you know.” 

“Oh,” Zayn says, throat suddenly dry. 

He clears his throat. 

Harry smirks and knocks back the rest of his margarita. “So who are you here with? Didn’t know Syco signed models, too.” 

“Mate, if you’re trying to chat me up, that was awful,” Zayn finds himself saying with a laugh. This kid is ridiculous and he knows it, knows that’s it’s part of his charm because Zayn isn’t the first person he’s tricked a genuine smile out of, eyes crinkled and nose scrunched. He moves in just a bit closer, still at a polite distance that leaves it up to Zayn to decide whether or not it stays polite. 

“I see you’ve got company,” Ben says, back with a glass of water that he presses into Zayn’s hand. Zayn watches Harry take Ben in, eyes sliding up and down his body blatantly, running his tongue across his bottom lip. Zayn’s annoyed to see Ben’s gaze drop to Harry’s mouth. 

“This is Harry. He fucks a guy in The 1975,” Zayn says. 

Harry blushes so intensely that Zayn can even see the tips of his ears turn red where they peak out through his curls. 

“Zayn—“ Ben starts.

Zayn continues. “Harry, this is Ben. He’s a mediocre director.” 

“He’s drunk,” Ben quickly says to Harry. “I’m really sorry. I really ought to get him home. ”

“I’m a little tipsy myself,” Harry says with an irritatingly charming smile. “And for what it’s worth, I fuck the lead singer.” 

Ben actually laughs and Zayn decides he’s had enough, doesn’t even know who he’s more jealous of right now, but he’d rather be anywhere but here, trapped in the middle of Ben’s bright smile and Harry’s pretty, green eyes. He doesn’t know why he cares; he’s getting paid regardless of Ben’s attention being elsewhere. 

He pushes off towards the toilets, not looking back when Ben calls after him. 

He doesn’t know how long he’s in there, silently fuming, thinking of making a clean escape and calling a cab. He’s close to doing it, too, splashing water on his face to sober up when someone else comes into the bathroom. It’s Harry, because of course it is, hovering over his shoulder in their reflection. 

“Done flirting with Ben?” Zayn asks, moving away to dry his hands. 

“Wanted to flirt with you,” Harry says with a lopsided grin. “Ben’s really fit, though.” 

“Then go be with Ben,” Zayn says, finally turning to face Harry. 

“I like you more than I like him, though.” Harry cocks his head like he’s going to lean in or a kiss, smirking when Zayn leans in, too but moving no closer. 

“You’re a smug little twat, innit?” 

“Depends, are you into that?” 

Zayn answers Harry by kissing him. 

Harry tastes like tequila and lemon and Zayn likes it, cups Harry’s face in his hands to pull him down because Zayn refuses to tilt his head up to make up for the couple inches of height between them. Harry’s presumptuous with his hands, grabs Zayn’s arse and squeezes, pulling their hips together as he flicks his tongue against Zayn’s. He’s a good kisser, doesn’t make it too wet but wet enough, soft lips and a clever tongue. 

“I liked that,” Harry says, lips all puffy when he pulls away. The scarf on his head’s gone lopsided and Zayn can’t stand it, reaches for it to unravel it, letting it fall to the ground. Harry doesn’t seem to care, though, hair falling into his face as he kisses Zayn again, more desperate this time, grinding his hips slowly and practically fucking Zayn’s mouth with his tongue. 

Zayn doesn’t think he’s been this turned on in ages, his cock so hard that he can feel it fucking _throbbing_ in his trousers. Harry’s hard against him, too, feels long and thick. Zayn palms at him through his stupidly tight jeans, making Harry let out a deep moan against his mouth, rocking into it. 

“You want it?” Harry asks, sucking on Zayn’s bottom lip, pressing his fingers into the cleft of Zayn’s arse. 

“Stop talking,” Zayn says, shoving Harry into a stall and locking the door behind them. Harry’s already unzipping his jeans, pushing them down with his pants so that his cock is out, curved against his see-through top and framed by the two leaves tattooed on his hips, pubic hair trimmed nice and low. 

He takes it in his hand, gives it a tug like he’s showing off, like he knows Zayn wants it. And Zayn does want it; it’s nice looking, the head wet and pink, the skin flushed beneath Harry’s pale fingers. It’s big, too, just like Zayn’d felt. He gets on his knees before he can think better of it, takes Harry into his mouth like he’s starving for it, like he doesn’t get paid to do this for a living. 

It’s been so long since Zayn’s given it up for free, because he really, really liked someone and wanted to make them come. He’s not sure he even likes Harry; they hadn’t talked long enough for that, and Zayn’d spent half that conversation trying not to roll his eyes. But Harry’s gorgeous, and he tastes good, too, perfect for one night. 

Harry leans back against the partition, spreading his legs as far apart as his will jeans allow, letting out a quiet ‘fuck’ as Zayn takes him into his throat, not stopping until his nose is pressed right against him. Harry’s so fucking _gentle_ , though, Zayn has to reach for Harry’s hands, make him tangle them in his hair as he bobs his head up and down, Harry setting a slow pace as he rocks his hips back and forth. 

“You’re not gonna choke me, you know,” Zayn says, pulling his mouth off Harry’s cock. It takes his breath away how Harry looks right now, nipples hard; shirt unbuttoned so low the antennas of his butterfly tattoo poke out. His hair’s a mess of curls that spill across his forehead no matter how many times he pushes them back, red lips parted. 

“Sorry,” Harry laughs, pushing Zayn back down. He’s rougher this time, fucks Zayn’s mouth like he means it, like he wishes he were fucking Zayn proper. He keeps pulling on Zayn’s hair, making Zayn look up at his face, bottom lip caught under his teeth as he rubs the head of his cock across the seam of Zayn’s mouth . He’s close, Zayn can taste his pre-come all over his tongue, mixing with his spit, and he wants it, wants Harry to fucking come all over his face or make him swallow it. 

But he also wants to get fucked by someone who didn’t pay him to pretend. 

“You wanna fuck me?” 

“Fuck, yeah. Can I?” Harry’s eyes are bright, cheeks dimpling. He looks like a child on Christmas morning. 

Zayn licks his lips. “Yeah.”

Harry slowly pushes back into Zayn’s mouth, fucking in deep and making Zayn gag on it one last time, his thumb reverently sliding down the curve of Zayn’s cheekbone. “So fucking pretty.” 

But Zayn doesn’t want to feel pretty; he wants to feel used. He’s glad that Harry’s rougher now that he knows Zayn won’t break, that his fine features and compact build don’t mean shit. Harry spins them, so now it’s Zayn with his face up against the wall, Harry’s hands on him, pushing his trousers down to his ankles, shoved under his shirt and sliding down his abs. 

Harry mouths at his ear, kisses his neck, hands braced above Zayn’s head as he presses his cock into Zayn’s arse crack, rubbing off between Zayn’s legs with shallow thrusts. Zayn gasps when the head nudges his hole. 

“What’s the tattoo on your neck of?” Harry asks like they’re not about to fuck in a public toilet. 

“A bird,” Zayn answers. “You gonna fuck me or not?” 

“Yeah,” Harry says, getting a hand around Zayn’s cock, and Zayn can’t stop himself from fucking up into his fist. Harry’s hands are big and warm, soft. Zayn’s eyes close as Harry pulls at one of his nipples, sinking his teeth into Zayn’s neck, but not deep enough to leave a mark. 

He’s so close with just this, barely manages to keep himself contained when Harry finally gets a sachet of lube out of his wallet and slicks his finger, pushing it up inside Zayn, his other hand still on Zayn’s cock. Harry’s fingers aren’t the thickest, so he works his way up to three quickly, and by then Zayn’s gagging for it, swearing and shaking. 

Harry takes his time fucking Zayn open, building up until he’s slamming into him good and hard, throwing his weight into it so Zayn _feels_ every fucking inch deep inside, feels like he’s stretched tight as Harry’s hips slap against his arse. He has to work hard at keeping the whimpers in his throat buried when other people drift in and out of the bathroom, pissing at the urinals and then washing their hands, turning a blind eye to the heavy breathing and extra pair of boots visible beneath the door in the stall behind them. 

Zayn starts jerking off when he’s close, Harry’s fingers curled around his, helping him bring himself off. He comes with a cry that he can’t stifle, tightening up around Harry and making him swear as his thrusts get faster and more erratic, but he lasts until Zayn’s orgasm’s over, fucks Zayn right through it, holding him up because Zayn’s gone all loose and relaxed. And then finally lets himself come, too, pressed in so deep Zayn has to stand on the balls of his feet, can’t do anything but take it. 

“Christ,” Harry laughs, buttoning his jeans back up. “That was amazing. Cheers.” 

They’re out of the stall now, in front of the mirror. The bathroom smells like sex. Harry’s given up on putting his scarf back around his head, so he’s draped it over his shoulders. He looks fucked-out, colour high on the apples of his cheeks, but he wears it well, looks like every rock star fantasy any teenager’s ever had. Zayn fusses with his hair one more time. He feels sex-drunk, regular-drunk, and sore. It’s a good feeling; he wants to take Harry home and kiss him all night whilst carding his fingers through all that hair, or maybe he just wants to fuck again, this time in a nice bed with some music on. 

“Not to be cliché, but I really need to have a cig after that,” Zayn says. 

He expects Harry to take the hint, make some excuse so he can go back to the party and find his hipster fuck-buddy, but Harry follows him out, babbles about muffins he wants to try baking because his sister got him Daisy Lowe’s cookbook and he’s trying to eat healthier. Zayn can’t tell if Harry’s drunk or if he’s always like this, but he’d be willing to guess it’s a combination of the two. He’s not sure if he’d be able to tolerate Harry when he’s not naked, but he supposes it doesn’t matter; it’s only a one-night stand. Harry’s just the kind of person one-night stands were invented for. 

Harry insists on getting them a round of tequila shots that knock Zayn off his arse, and he doesn’t remember much after that, remembers more kissing in a dark corner, his hands gripping the bare skin on Harry’s waist because he’d rucked his shirt up, and then he remembers getting shoved off of Harry, Ben looking angry, getting dragged outside like he was fucking seven years old and misbehaved in the supermarket. He remembers telling Ben to fuck off before getting into a cab. He remembers stopping for falafel and he remembers having to hold onto the wall in the lift. 

He doesn’t remember getting sick, but he knows he did. 

Fuck. 

 

&&

 

“Fuck,” Zayn says, because it’s just his luck that he runs into Harry again, Harry who apparently works in a sex shop and shoves half his hair into a little ponytail during the day. His eyes are prettier in daylight. 

Zayn goes home with a collection of illustrated erotic art he didn’t need and Harry Styles’ number in his phone.


	2. 2

Philip is Zayn’s favourite client, and it’s not just because they don’t fuck. 

“I haven’t seen you since you left the agency,” Philip says, pressing a kiss to each of Zayn’s cheeks, ushering him into the living room with a gentle hand on his back. 

They meet on Thursday afternoons, sat around the coffee table in Philip’s posh townhouse in Fulham. Philip serves Zayn tea on a little silver tray, the cups and saucers made of artfully painted china, homemade biscuits still warm from the oven carefully arranged on a matching plate. 

Philip is tall and thin, greying hair shaved low, left ear pierced. He’s always well dressed despite the fact that they never go out. Today he’s wearing a lemon yellow shirt, his trousers a bright blue, shoes tan and suede. Zayn watches his hands; his nails are long and red, filed into sharp points as he adds a splash of milk to his tea. 

Philip does drag at cabaret clubs all over London, strips off his crisp Paul Smith shirts for breastplates and wig caps, goes by Phi Phi Badcock instead of Philip Whitehall whilst he lip syncs to Madonna and shakes the round arse he doesn’t have. 

Zayn likes Philip because he’s interesting. Zayn doesn’t know what Philip’s actual profession is, what he makes a living off during the day when he’s not performing as Phi Phi, but it must be something major to afford a house like this in Fulham and the black Mercedes parked in the garage. 

Philip never talks about his job. The first time Zayn had shrugged his coat off in the foyer, eyes big as he took everything in, Philip had just laughed and said he was from old money. Zayn had said it looked like a footballer’s house when they got those features in magazines, and Philip laughed some more and said Zayn was even prettier in person. 

Philip talks about everything but his job. Philip has regaled Zayn with stories from when he was younger, when he was bored and reckless and dealing cocaine in the late 70’s because he could. _‘I’d even sold to David Bowie one night,’_ he’d said with a laugh, adding a splash of milk to his tea. _‘Could snort his weight in the stuff, that one.’_

Philip has talked about holidays he’s taken to Thailand, going to bars in Sweden and waking up in Norway handcuffed to the headboard, the time he’d got mugged twice in as many days visiting a dancer he’d been dating who lived in a rough part of New York. Philip’s seen and done everything, and Zayn always feels like there are lessons hiding in everything he says, thinks back on them when he’s on the tube home, his wallet thick in his pocket. 

Philip also talks about his latest flings each time Zayn’s over, each younger and prettier than the last. It’s strange, Zayn always thinks, how Philip pays an escort to listen to his problems with his toy boys. 

“You’re probably the love of my life, you know,” Philip says like he always does, running a tube of red lipstick across Zayn’s bottom lip. Today he’s practically thrumming with energy, quick on his feet, has brought his extensive makeup kit out and told Zayn he’d like to put some on him. 

Zayn’d just shrugged and told him to do his worst; he’d grown up in a house full of girls, has woken up with his nails painted and lips glossy more times than he could count and had even had a phase of putting eyeliner on when he was into pulling at nightclubs. It’s nothing he hasn’t done before. 

Philip is as deft with the different sized brushes as Zayn would’ve imagined, reminds Zayn of sitting on the stairs watching his aunts getting ready for weddings. It’s strangely comforting, closing his eyes as the brushes gently dust across his cheeks and eyelids. 

“You’re too beautiful to be doing what you’re doing,” Philip always says that, too in a tone too gentle for Zayn to roll his eyes at. “You’ve got very intelligent eyes, all the posturing of a sensitive soul. You’re quiet, but you listen. You must break all your clients’ hearts; I certainly can’t be the only one who’s fallen arse over tit. ” 

“Thanks, I guess,” Zayn laughs, never really sure what to do with grand compliments Philip likes to shower him with. 

When he’s working he’s used to hearing he’s hot or good with his mouth or big, nothing like this. It makes him feel more vulnerable than lying on his back does; he can handle giving his body to someone, but not who he is, as well, not the aspirations he’s too scared to commit to or his deepest fears or even how his first time was. 

Philip clicks his tongue. “I’m not taking the piss, you know. You’re an artist, aren’t you? The world is yours if you want it; it’s made for people like you: talented, good looking, sweet. There’s no reason you can’t be more than this.” 

Zayn doesn’t know what to say. His stomach is twisting itself into knots. 

“I remember you used to talk about painting. How’s that going? Have you done anything recently?” 

Zayn shrugs. 

“I bet you’re good, too. And even if you’re not, I bet you’re smart enough to make people think you are. God knows you’re smart enough to make me pay £300 for an hour of your time and you don’t even take your bloody clothes off.” 

“I could take my clothes off if you want,” Zayn tries for humour, tries to get the conversation off himself because he doesn’t like this. He feels uncomfortable, like he’s hearing all the things he tries not to think about all at once. 

Philip stretches the skin above the crease of his eye, pressing an eyeliner pencil along the shape of it. “You know that’s not what I meant.”

“I’ve just been busy.” 

“Busy doing what? This? There’s no reason for you to do this every day. You clearly make a lot of money. If you wanted you could stop this tomorrow, go do what it is you really want to do, unless you’ve got some expensive drug habit I don’t know about, or spend it all on girls and clothes—”

“No, I—“ 

“I know you don’t; you’re too smart for all that rot. You know what I really think, Zayn? I think you’re in a bit of a slump. I don’t know what’s holding you back, but I think you’ve got too comfortable with the easy money and you’re losing sight of yourself.” 

Zayn clenches his jaw. For the first time in the months Zayn’s known Philip, he wants to tell him to fuck himself. But he can’t, because Philip’s not entirely wrong and they both know it. 

“There’s makeup remover in the bathroom,” Philip says, stepping away. “Lucky you, don’t even need mascara with lashes like that.” 

When Zayn looks in the mirror, it’s like he doesn’t even recognise himself, and it’s not just because of the cherry red lipstick contrasting against the stubble on his jaw or the sharp wings of his eyeliner or the dark blush highlighting the shadows that fall beneath his cheekbones. 

He’s felt bits of this before, every time he catches himself in the mirror after showering in yet another hotel en suite, or when his hands shake as he tries to light a cigarette whilst waiting for a taxi, but never all at once like this. 

He scrubs the makeup off and leaves so fast he doesn’t even think he’d said goodbye. 

 

&&

 

The heat inside the bar undermines how chilly it actually is outside. Zayn throws his leather jacket over the back of his chair. He’s at a dive on Old Street, surrounded by the hum of conversation and the laughter and music and glasses clinking against the scuffed table tops. Louis’d convinced him to come, harassed more like, said it’d been too long since Zayn’s gone out like a normal twenty-one year old. 

“You’ve got to get out more, mate. All you do is sleep and work. Who knows, you might even pull someone,” Louis had said with a wink that quickly turned into a scowl when Zayn beat him to the finish line in Mario Kart for the fifth time.

But Zayn isn’t particularly interested in anyone at the bar, none of the birds with pastel coloured hair and flowers tattooed along their arms, or the blokes in their ripped up skinnies and thick knit jumpers. Zayn feels like they’re all trying too hard, even as he’s sat there in his own tight jeans with his quiffed up hair and all his tattoos, just like them. 

But he’s really not like them, not where it counts. He’s not caught up in being trendy and cool in London, working as a club promoter or attaching himself to it boys and it girls who’ve got thousands of followers on Instagram and run cool blogs about art and fashion and music Zayn doesn’t listen to.

They remind him of Harry and that bloke he was with, middleclass wankers whose primary concern is trying to be cool. It makes Zayn think of how he’s still got Harry’s number in his phone from that day he’d run into him at the sex shop, how awkward that’d been but how Harry’d still insisted on making polite conversation, asking Zayn if he’d got in alright and giving a self-deprecating laugh as he admitted he still had a hangover. 

He’d looked genuinely pleased when Zayn’d passed him his mobile and said to put his number in before Zayn hastily paid for his book and got out of the shop. He then spent the walk home berating himself for not picking up lube and condoms while he was there; it was weird enough getting that book with Harry looming over his shoulder. 

“I fuckin’ love this song,” Niall says, drumming along on the table with his fingers. 

Liam, the other bloke who works at the record shop is there, too. It’s the first time Zayn’s met them. Niall is loud and funny, the kind of person it’s impossible to dislike because they’re practically made of positive energy, easy-going and generous with affection. Liam, on the other hand had been harder to read at first, awkward until he got two pints in him, but Zayn likes him well enough. 

“I haven’t heard it before,” Zayn says, straining his ears to listen above all the noise around them. “Who’s it by?” 

“The 1975,” Louis answers. “Niall’s a big fan.”

“Saw them live a week ago,” Niall says, licking froth from his beer off his top lip. “Can’t wait for their EP to come out, it’s gonna be sick.” 

“It’s quite an interesting sound they’ve got, it’s like R&B but really like, indie or something,” Liam adds. “You should check them out. I didn’t think I’d be into it, myself but they’re not bad.” 

Zayn abruptly excuses himself, mumbling something about needing a cig. 

He’s almost afraid Harry’s going to pop up, every mop of curly hair he catches in the corner of his eyes makes the hairs on the back of his neck raise. He doesn’t think about Harry all the time, but he’d be lying if he said Harry didn’t often cross his mind. He can’t seem to escape him. 

It’s not like Zayn’s got feelings for him or anything; he doesn’t know him well enough for that; Harry’s not even his type, not really. But he can’t help but mull over the fact that they’d run into each other like that the day after getting off at a party, that Harry works so close to where Zayn lives, that they’ve possibly crossed paths without knowing.

Zayn hasn’t called or texted him since taking his number, but sometimes he wants to and he doesn’t know why. Maybe for another fuck; Harry’d be good for that if nothing else. It’s normal to feel that way after someone’s done a good job of making you come. Zayn still thinks about Harry’s teeth in his neck when he’s having a wank in the shower. 

“You alright?” Louis asks, appearing at Zayn’s side. “You kind of fucked off like something upset you.” 

“Sorry, just got some shit on my mind.” 

Louis frowns, zipping his hoodie up from the cold. “Anything you want to talk about?” 

“Not right now,” Zayn says. Louis’ frown deepens. “I’ll tell you about it later, but it’s really not a big deal or anything.” 

“You’re not in some kind of trouble, are you?” 

“What would I be in trouble for, Louis? Jesus.” 

They both know what Zayn could be in trouble for, but Louis knows better than to say it. He raises his hands in surrender, taking a step back. “Sorry I asked.” 

Zayn immediately feels awful for snapping. He knows he always does this, gets defensive about escorting when Louis’ never once come close to throwing anything in his face. He runs a hand through his hair. “Sorry. I’m just tired, I’m think I’m gonna take off—”

“Oh, come on, Malik. Even though you’re acting like a knob tonight, Niall and Liam have still taken a liking to you. At least have another pint before you go. Don’t leave like this and make them think they’ve done something to offend you. I big you up to them all the time, man, don’t fuck it up—” 

“Alright, alright. Fucking hell,” Zayn says as Louis pulls him into a hug, kissing Zayn’s forehead over and over until Zayn’s laughing into his chest. 

Zayn ends up staying for another two rounds, loosened up and flushed. He’s got a good buzz going and everyone’s happy and chatty, conversation flowing easily like they’re all old friends catching up. He would’ve stayed longer if something in him hadn’t urgently decided he needed to see Harry tonight. 

He tries to to convince himself that it’s a bad idea whilst on the train home; it’s weird to drunk-dial someone you had a one-night stand with, isn’t it? It’s been so long since he’s been caught in a situation like this, he doesn’t know what the etiquette is. His friend Danny’s always joked that Zayn’s love life is every Drake song come to life, and in moments like this, Zayn thinks he might be right. Zayn’s always had a penchant for the dramatic, pined more than he should. 

In the end, he sends a text, a simple ‘hey it’s Zayn, what you up to tonight?’ like it’s not half twelve. His heart beats fast as he waits for a reply that most likely won’t come, nearly bloody stops beating altogether when Harry calls him instead of texting back. He almost doesn’t answer, suddenly second-guessing himself. But he does, and now Harry’s coming over. 

Zayn doesn’t know what to do while he waits, but sitting still is impossible. He doesn’t even know how long it’s going to take Harry to get here. He changes into a pair of joggers and sweeps his hair up under a beanie, throws out the empty Starbucks cup and empty water bottles that’ve been sitting on the coffee table for the past two days, wishing for the first time in his life that he had more of a mess to clean up because he’s so anxious he’s ready to bounce off walls.

He answers the door with a joint between his lips. 

Harry’s stood on the other side, hair falling loose around his face. He looks good, wearing tight jeans that are badly patched up in the knee and a lilac jumper that hangs past his knuckles. Zayn steps aside to let him in. 

“This is your flat?” Harry asks, eyes curious as he has a look around. 

“Uh, yeah.” 

“You have your own _loft_ in Soho?” Harry turns to face him, incredulous. Zayn imagines he must look incredibly out of place at the moment, shirtless and scruffy amongst the sleek furniture and the big flat screen mounted on the wall. He can just hear his dad’s voice in his head, telling him he looks like he should spend his money on food rather than tattoos. 

Zayn shrugs, taking a long drag off his joint before offering it to Harry. Harry shakes his head, so Zayn shrugs again and has another pull, thick smoke curling around him. He’s beginning to think inviting Harry over was just as bad an idea as he’d feared. 

“So what do you do, then?” Harry asks as Zayn plops himself on the couch. “You never gave me a serious answer on whether or not you’re a model.” 

“I’m not a model,” Zayn says, purposefully vague. A smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth when Harry’s brow furrows, a deep crease of confusion between his eyebrows. 

“Why won’t you tell me?” 

Zayn snorts. “Did you really come here to ask me a bunch of questions?” 

“You didn’t invite me over for my scintillating conversation skills?” Harry deadpans, and Zayn licks his lips, interested. He likes when Harry shows he’s got spine. 

Zayn leans forward, grinding the stub in the ashtray. “We can talk if that’s what you really want.” 

“What do you do, Zayn? Is it something illegal?” Harry asks, coming closer. He gasps when Zayn pulls him down onto his lap, hands on Harry’s arse. 

“Why? You like bad boys?” 

“You wish you were a bad boy. Actually, you don’t need to tell me. I think I’ve got it figured out.”

“Yeah?”

“I reckon you’re an artist.” 

Zayn is reluctantly impressed, and more than a little relieved that Harry’d come to that conclusion rather than the one he doesn’t want to talk about. “How’d you figure that out?” 

“You’ve got paint all over your trousers,” Harry laughs, kissing Zayn on the mouth. Zayn cups the back of his neck, keeping Harry still so he can deepen the kiss, lick his tongue against Harry’s, suck at lips until they’re puffy. 

Harry’s cheeks are a soft pink that matches his mouth when Zayn pulls away, which in turn matches his jumper. Up close he’s a haze of light colour and Zayn feels relaxed and creative from smoking, commits all of Harry’s colours to memory, tucks them away for whatever he paints next. 

“So,” Harry says, voice gone rough, “is Ben like, your sugar daddy?” 

“Do you ever stop asking questions?” 

“Is this how you treat all your booty calls?” 

“Only when they talk too much. Can think of other things you could be doing with your mouth.” 

Harry narrows his eyes. “If I suck your dick, will you show me some of your art?” 

Zayn laughs. “Has anyone ever told you you’re a bit of a slag?” 

“I’m serious,” Harry says with the kind of pout that gets him what he wants, looking more determined than anyone should in this situation. 

“Make it good for me and I’ll think about it.” 

Harry gives Zayn a sceptical look, but he slides down between Zayn’s legs anyway, looking up at him and flashing one of his crooked grins. And then he mouths at the line of Zayn’s half-hard cock through his joggers. It feels hot and wet through the fabric, his tongue leaving a damp trail. 

It doesn’t take long for Zayn to get fully hard, his fingers knotted in Harry’s curls as he grinds into his mouth, lets Harry keep teasing at him until he can’t take it anymore. Harry scrunches his face up when Zayn yanks roughly on his hair, snapping his neck back. 

“Is this why you don’t cut these curly locks? Like having your hair pulled?”

“Maybe,” Harry says, swiping his tongue across his bottom lip.

But his eyes fall to Zayn’s other hand where his thumb is hooked beneath the waist of his joggers, pushing them down just enough to get his cock and bollocks out. Zayn barely needs to put any weight into pushing Harry’s head back down. 

Harry licks him from root to tip, flicking his tongue into the wet slit with just enough pressure to make Zayn’s hips snap upwards. He tightens his hold on Harry’s hair again, and Harry gets the point, goes down on Zayn until there’s nothing left to take and Zayn’s fucking lazily into his throat. 

He likes to hold Harry down, feel and hear him gagging before pulling him back off, the noises wet and filthy as his mouth slides up Zayn’s cock. Harry’s eyes are wet when he looks up at him, fingers digging into Zayn’s thighs to keep his balance, knees sliding on the floor. Zayn bets Harry’s so hard in his skinnies that it hurts. It turns him on even more, being so close to the edge whilst Harry hasn’t even got his cock out much less touched himself.

“Fuck, babe, I’m close,” he moans, sliding his foot along the lean curve of Harry’s inner thigh, letting it come to rest on the bulge in his jeans. “You gonna let me come on your face?” 

“Yeah, do it, fuck,” Harry says, a noise caught low in his throat as Zayn’s foot presses harder against his prick. The look on his face is all it takes to push Zayn over the edge, squeezing at himself as he looks at Harry’s half-shut eyes and the stung-looking red of his lips. He pulls at his own nipple, fucking into his fist until he’s shaking with his orgasm, coming all over Harry’s cheeks and mouth and chin. 

Harry’s taken his jumper and jeans off when he joins Zayn in the bedroom, wearing a white t-shirt and tight little black pants that his erection’s stretching, half his hair pulled up into a little bun. Zayn doesn’t usually look at half-naked boys with hard cocks and think they’re cute, but Harry sort of is, he decides from where he’s sat having a cigarette in the window. 

Harry pulls his shirt up over his head, and Zayn lets his eyes sweep over the taut muscle of his stomach and all his pale skin and dark tattoos. He gets on the bed, watching Zayn expectantly, long legs splayed. Zayn drops his cig into the chipped mug on the ledge that’s become a makeshift ashtray, makes his way over to where Harry is. 

He can make out fading love bites on Harry’s chest, can’t resist pushing his thumb into the fattest one, yellowing between the swallow tattoos, his cross pendant catching the light beneath it. “You get these from your friend?” 

“Who? Matty?” 

Zayn shrugs. “The one in the band.” 

“Yeah, told him I got with someone at the party and he got all possessive like he doesn’t get with other people all the time; he’s even got a girl he’s been seeing,” Harry says. Zayn never thought Harry was capable of sounding so bitter. 

He doesn’t quite know what to say as he slots himself between Harry’s thighs. “Does he know you’re here?” 

“No, he’s doing a show in Manchester.”

“Do you love him or something?” 

“Now who’s asking too many questions?” 

Zayn curls his fingers around Harry’s wrists, pinning them to the mattress. “Getting cheeky.”

“My balls are turning blue,” Harry says, his cock hard against Zayn’s hip as he nips at his jaw. 

Zayn kisses him slow and gentle, swallowing up the soft sounds Harry makes when he rocks his hips down. “Want me to get you off?” 

“’s only fair, isn’t it?” 

“What do you want me to do?” Zayn presses his mouth to Harry’s neck, wanting to leave a mark of his own but thinking better of it. 

“I dunno,” Harry laughs as Zayn lets his wrists go, hands now on Harry’s hips, dragging his pants down so that he’s naked, cock thickened up and dark with arousal. Harry’s body is gorgeous. Zayn could spend hours looking at it, tracing shapes with his tongue. It’s a shame he hadn’t seen it all the first time. “What do you want to do?” 

“Wanna fuck you. Can I?” 

Harry nods, leaning in to lick at Zayn’s upper lip. “Yeah. Do it.” 

Zayn fetches lube and a Durex from the drawer in the bedside table; makes Harry get on his hands and knees. He’s got a decent arse for someone so lanky, a nice round handful. Zayn can’t resist running his tongue across his hole, feeling it clench as Harry gasps into the sheets. 

He does it again, spreading Harry open as he licks at him, getting him all wet until it’s easy to press his tongue in deep. 

Harry moans his name, reaching between his legs to tug at himself. 

“Don’t come until I’m in you,” Zayn says with a breathless laugh, biting Harry on the curve of one cheek as he slicks his fingers, slides one in and then quickly adds another when Harry pushes back, saying his name again and swearing. 

Zayn wants to see Harry’s face this time when they fuck, so he pulls Harry on top of him, watches his mouth go slack as he lowers himself onto Zayn’s cock. It’s like all the air’s been knocked from his lungs when Zayn fucks in the last couple inches, his teeth clenched. 

Harry rocks his hips rather than bounces, knows how to ride a dick like he’s the one who gets paid for it. Zayn tries to help him out, too, wants Harry to enjoy this just as much, so he shifts the angle of his hips until Harry lets out a moan that Zayn swears has woken at least one of his neighbours, his voice cracking higher than Zayn’s ever heard it. 

Zayn runs his hand up Harry’s body, feels the muscle in his abs and the spaces between his ribs, the tight skin of his nipples. Harry takes his hand, brings it to his mouth and drags his tongue across Zayn’s palm before shoving it back down where he wants it. Zayn immediately gets his fingers around Harry’s cock, working him over as he snaps his hips up faster and harder. 

It feels incredible, he’s lost in the way Harry looks, how fucking tight he is. He doesn’t even know who comes first; it’s all fireworks behind his eyelids. 

Harry rolls onto the bed beside him, looking up at the ceiling and breathing like he’s just run a marathon, flushed from the tips of his ears to his chest and shiny with sweat. He notices Zayn staring at him. He stares back. 

“Are you going to show me your art, then?” 

Zayn laughs. “Maybe in the morning.” 

“Is this your way of asking me to stay the night?” 

“Only if you’re going to make me breakfast. I like my coffee black and my eggs runny.” 

“You’ve got a lot of attitude for someone who just had their tongue in my arse,” Harry says, cackling when Zayn hits him in the face with a pillow. 

 

&&

 

Harry cooks Zayn breakfast naked, the eggs perfectly runny and served on toast with baked beans, coffee bubbling in the French press Zayn never uses. Zayn thanks him with a soapy handjob in the shower before Harry flits off, hobbling on one foot as he zips up his boot and talks about all the things he’s got to get done which includes buying a present for his friend’s dog’s birthday party. 

When Harry’s gone, Zayn sets up in the open space beneath the skylight that he’s turned into a studio, getting out his paints and finding the biggest canvas he’s got stretched. 

He lets his mind go blank as he paints, cigarette hanging from his mouth, music on. He paints for hours, doesn’t stop, can’t stop. He hasn’t felt like this about his work in months. 

When he steps away, the white of the canvas has been covered in lilacs and pinks and a pale green, an abstract mess of colours and brush strokes that wouldn’t make sense to anyone else, the shapes of a portrait started. But Zayn knows what it’s about and he has to step away from it, shaking his head as he lights another cigarette off the one already in his mouth. 

There are two missed calls from Ben waiting on his phone. He perches in the windowsill, overlooking the throngs of people milling about on Oxford Street.


	3. 3

The thing is, being a rent boy was never something Zayn would’ve imagined for himself. It wasn’t that he was sheltered, necessarily; it was hard to grow up sheltered in Bradford. Everyone knew where the prossies were, tracksuits on and hoops swinging in their ears as they stopped cars along Thornton Road. Most of them were caught up in drugs, charged just enough to afford a couple hits of heroin and maybe something to eat. 

_Everyone_ knew about that.

But if he were being honest with himself, and in this moment he is, it’s that it hadn’t ever really occurred to him that it was something _men_ did. 

There’d been boys at school who’d always have the latest Nikes on, had Blackberries when Zayn was still using the cheapest Motorola with a camera. There’d also been rumours circulating about the older men they’d mess about with in exchange for mobiles and brand name shit. But Zayn hadn’t thought of it like _that_. No one did. Lads like that were just written off as queer. Zayn’s mates would gossip about them excitedly during lunch whilst Zayn was quietly grappling with the fact that his eyes lingered too long on arms and backs in the changing room before P.E. 

In the end, it’d just been funny how quickly moving away from home had changed him, like being woken up with a splash of cold water.

Zayn’s always been a smart kid, was reading at an adult level from the time he was eight years old, could speak Urdu, as well and read Arabic and understand a bit of Punjabi. His family’s always been proud of how bright he is, his mum quick to let anyone know that he’s read the Qur’an three times. 

But his good marks hadn’t been good enough to qualify him for any scholarships, and with Doniya finishing up her nursing degree and Waliyha and Safaa still at home, it meant money was tight. 

His parents had had to take out a loan at the bank to afford sending him off to London, his dad taking on longer shifts at work. And when he got there, he found himself having to choose between food and a pack of fags more often than he’d have liked, living on Super Noodles and whatever the constant stream of people trying to get into his trousers would pay for. 

His mate had pulled some strings, got Zayn a job doing promotions at Funky Buddha, getting dressed up and hanging out and taking pictures with different people every night, downing free drinks to forget how shy he naturally is and waking up in all kinds of beds. 

It’s where he’d met Giles, Giles who wore nice cologne and ran an escort agency and told Zayn he’d make a lot of money as he tipped more Belvedere into Zayn’s cup. 

Zayn’d brushed it off with a laugh—he’s had guests offer him everything from drugs to modelling contracts to bizarre sexual favours. He’d practically forgot about Giles the same night, taking his card and moving off to check on the pissed sixth formers at the booth over. 

Of course he’d found the card again, tucked into the pocket of the blazer he’d been wearing. He read it with eyes still puffy from crying the night before, had just got in from his granddad’s funeral in Bradford. 

And he’d thought about it, thought about it whilst he looked at his marks and realised he was failing practically everything, thought about it after a sobering chat with the chair of his programme, thought about it after checking the balance of his bank account. 

So he’d called Giles, had an interview set up, took pictures for the website that didn’t show anything above his mouth, his shirt unbuttoned and his trousers slung indecently low. 

He painted because he didn’t know what else to do with himself and painting’s always cleared his head. Louis noticed the stack of canvases threatening to take over his room, because Louis notices everything and doesn’t stop until people listen. He’d insisted on having a look at all of them, told Zayn he’s wasting his talent hiding everything in there. 

Zayn often needs a push, and Louis’ great at pushing. He got Zayn ‘s paintings into a show because he knew someone who knew someone, and the show got great reviews.

It happened so fast, how Zayn suddenly found himself being both an escort and an artist, how he tried his hardest to keep that separate, telling his mum about a painting he’s working on and putting her on hold because Giles was on the other line with an appointment.

He’d left the agency after his pockets got fat, decided to wean himself off all that, kept an exclusive list of clients so he could work less and paint more and keep all his money like he wasn’t already making more than enough. 

And this is where he’s been ever since, like he’s stuck. He fucks more than he paints and he doesn’t know what to do with himself.

 

&&

 

“Am I boring you?” Ben asks, beard scratching against Zayn’s neck as he kisses his way down, curving his fingers up deeper, making Zayn’s hips buck. 

“Sorry, just thinking,” Zayn says breathily, tightening up because Ben always loves to feel him like this, squeezing around his fingers before he fucks him. 

Ben seems pleased, smirks at him and presses up again. “What’s got your pretty, little head so bothered?” 

Zayn shrugs and Ben doesn’t pry any further, busies himself biting at Zayn’s collarbone and pushing a third finger in, fucking Zayn lazily on them. Zayn closes his eyes, lets himself enjoy this. Ben’s always been too good in bed. It drives Zayn crazy. 

Ben pulls his fingers out slowly, tracing his tongue along Zayn’s nipple before tugging it between his teeth. Zayn’s cock jumps, pre-come dripping onto his belly. 

“Wanna fuck you on your hands and knees,” Ben says, reaching for the condom he’d thrown onto the bed, next to the bottle of lube. 

They do it facing the mirror at the foot of the bed, Ben’s fingers pulling hard on Zayn’s hair as he slams into him from behind. Zayn slides down on his elbows, raising his arse up, and Ben slaps it, the same hand quickly making its way up to tug on Zayn’s hair. It feels good, really good. Zayn has to squeeze his fingers around the base of his cock to stop from coming too soon, his whole body shaking each time the head of his prick drags across the Egyptian cotton sheets. 

“You close, baby?” Ben huffs, yanking Zayn’s hair again, making him look at their reflection in the mirror. Ben’s big and broad, sturdy, hair all down his chest and stomach and a thick beard. Zayn looks younger than he feels, big eyes and no stubble on his jaw like there usually is. 

He nods, watching Ben watch him, watching his own mouth go slack, his bottom lip bitten pink. “Yeah.” 

“Give me your hands,” Ben says, and Zayn quickly shifts, knees slipping in his haste to put his arms behind his back, wrists crossed for Ben to hold onto with his big hands. He keeps Zayn steady, fucking into him so hard that Zayn can’t keep quiet. If they weren’t in a nice suite in the Knightsbridge Hotel, Zayn would be worried whoever shared a wall with them could hear the high-pitched noises that don’t quite make it out of his throat. 

Ben is relentless when he finds the right angle, keeps thrusting right _there_ and making Zayn see white. “Who’s gonna make you come, babe?” 

“You,” Zayn whimpers, fingers flexing uselessly as his toes curl and stomach clenches. 

Ben throws all his weight into it, his thrusts becoming erratic. He’s holding onto Zayn’s wrists so tight that it hurts. Zayn watches Ben lean over him, mouth on his ear as he whispers, “Who’s gonna make you come, Zayn?” 

“You, Daddy,” Zayn says as he comes. It’s like Ben’s fucking the come out of him; he can’t stop once he’s started, getting spunk all over the sheets and his tensed abs. Ben doesn’t last long after, sinks his teeth into Zayn’s shoulder as his orgasm hits, hips pressed right up to Zayn’s arse. 

He lets Ben kiss him after, soft like it means something as he runs his knuckles down Zayn’s cheekbone, sliding his hands up Zayn’s sides. And then it’s over, Ben patting his bum lightly and telling him he can have the shower first. 

“D’you want me to give you a ride home?” Ben asks as Zayn’s buttoning his shirt at the dresser, fussing his hair so that it looks more stylish than ‘just fucked’. 

Zayn turns to him, watching as Ben does up his cufflinks. They’d been an anniversary present from his wife, Zayn remembers. Ben had told him that one night after too much wine at dinner, in between banging on about how much he missed her, fingering the cufflinks as he talked. He’d also got too pissed to stay hard and Zayn’d had to hold him until he fell asleep. 

That was an awful night for several reasons. 

Ben hadn’t worn the cufflinks since. Zayn imagines this must mean he and his wife might be on speaking terms again. He doesn’t want to ask; it’s an unspoken rule that they don’t talk about Ben’s marriage, or what’s left of it, in any great detail. 

“Nah, I’ll take a cab,” he says, sitting at the little table to put his shoes on. 

“Are you sure? I’m headed that way—“ 

“It’s fine,” Zayn says, giving him a small smile. 

“You know,” Ben says thoughtfully, thumbing at his beard, “you’ve been a lot more pleasant lately. More like how you used to be.” 

Zayn snorts. “How’d I used to be?” 

“Less Jaded, I suppose. Less likely to embarrass me at work events.” 

“You’re still upset about that?” Zayn pulls his laces too tight. “I said I was sorry, had too much to drink.” 

Ben shrugs. “I don’t know. It’s nice to see you like this, though, less withdrawn. Keep up whatever it is you’ve been doing.” 

“Will do,” Zayn laughs, kissing Ben on the cheek as he slips his jacket on. “Thanks for taking me out tonight. It was good. Give me a call whenever you want to meet up again, yeah?” 

Ben smiles, eyes soft. “Of course. Take care of yourself, Zayn, and give whoever’s been making you happy my love.” 

Zayn’s stunned, brow furrowing, but he nods and smiles and leaves because he doesn’t know what else to do with that. 

Shadows from the fat raindrops on the taxi window fall onto Zayn’s hands, moving across tendons and veins like tiny, meandering rivers. He flexes his fingers, Ben’s words playing in his head over and over again, constant like the lazy hum of the idling car engine because they’re stuck in traffic, an accident up ahead. 

Zayn knows he’s moody, that he can be downright difficult. He stays in his head a lot and he doesn’t necessarily think of how miserable he’s being. It’s hard, sometimes, not to get carried away wallowing in all the things he’s bottled up. 

He’s stubborn. He knows he can be abrasive. He’s never been good at hiding how he really feels, pasting a big, fake smile on. He’s been more snappish than he’d like with Louis, has seen Louis flinch and brush things off because he knows that sometimes Zayn doesn’t think before he talks because he’s often the same way. Zayn’s been like this since he was a kid, his dad knowing when to give him space and his mum trying to cheer him up with his favourite food, knocking on his bedroom door with a plate of samosas or making chicken for dinner. 

He knows he’s insufferable some days. Ben’s got no qualms telling him, neither do his sisters nor Louis nor Ant and Danny when he’s back home for a visit. Harry’s told him that, too, because Harry’s somehow been in his flat almost every night since that first time. 

Zayn doesn’t know what they are, but Harry’s wriggled his way into being a part of Zayn’s life. They’re not quite friends and they’re definitely not seeing each other. Harry sends Zayn texts throughout the day about funny customers that walk into Soho Books; just yesterday he’d sent a picture of himself and a group of Japanese tourists making peace signs in front of an aisle of porn DVD’s. Zayn’s horrible at texting, but he texts back, too. 

He’s grown used to Harry popping over, making Zayn toasties with avocados and red peppers that’ve suddenly appeared in Zayn’s kitchen. A pair of his socks is rolled up in the corner of Zayn’s bedroom, and he’s got two Diptyque candles from Harrods on the counter in the bathroom. Zayn finds long strands of hair on his pillows.

Harry makes Zayn laugh like Zayn hasn’t in a long time. He’s easy to be fond of, talks long and rambling with his hands helping him along, finds the strangest things to comment on like they’re deep or fascinating. But he can be surprisingly quiet, too, playing with his bottom lip as he thumbs through his phone. Sometimes he brings a book to read and just lies in bed with Zayn, nose pressed into Zayn’s neck whilst Zayn catches up on his reading, too, _giggling_ when they turn pages at the same time. 

He also gets Zayn to do things he normally wouldn’t, like baking carrot cake (with a gram of weed in it per Zayn’s suggestion) and getting Zayn up at sunrise to go for a jog that one time. 

Harry’s like this secret he has; they don’t know each other’s friends and they don’t exist outside of Zayn’s flat. Zayn looks forward to Harry coming round a few times a week, but he hadn’t realised Harry made him _happy_ , because Harry’s the only change he’s had recently, and he’s been painting more, apparently being nicer to Ben. 

His stomach twists into knots, because, fuck, he fancies Harry, Harry who he still doesn’t know much about because Harry’s got this way of letting you in—but not quite. Zayn doesn’t know what Harry’s favourite colour is, what he stays up at night thinking about. He doesn’t even know if Harry feels the same because Harry’s one of those people who’s at least a bit in love with everyone they meet, that outgoing, friendly sort that Zayn’s never been particularly drawn to. 

And he thinks about how different they are, how Harry likes blokes in bands and soft guitar music. He likes being part of that hip London crowd that Zayn doesn’t want to fit in with. He’s mentioned kissing Grimmy from Radio 1 in a club and still having his number in his phone, going to parties that Rita Ora and Cara Delevigne are at. 

Zayn isn’t at all like that and there’s no way they’d work out. There’s no way Harry will want him back like that when Matty can write him songs and be the rock and roll boyfriend that people like Harry all want. 

It’s funny, realising you’re arse over tit for someone and simultaneously realising you’ll never have them. 

 

&&

 

Zayn shows Harry his art the third time Harry comes round to his. 

The second time they hadn’t done much talking; they were both desperate to get each other off again, spent all night in Zayn’s bed and slept until Harry had to run off to work in a borrowed Bob Marley t-shirt the next day. 

But the third time’s always a charm. Zayn is in the middle of painting when Harry rings him, asking if he’s busy. 

“Kind of, yeah,” Zayn says, stepping back from the four-foot canvas, newspaper laid out all over the floor. It’s the biggest he’s worked so far, and it’s freeing, covering it with a brush as big as his head. “Painting,” he adds when Harry doesn’t say anything. 

“Can I still come over? Promise I won’t be in your way.” 

“Bring whisky,” Zayn says, and Harry laughs. 

Harry does show up with a bottle of Johnnie Walker Black, and a battered copy of works by Charles Bukowski that he got off a friend. Zayn does a shot and goes back to painting and Harry stretches out on the couch, long feet hanging off the armrest and his face in his book, ridiculous, wide-brimmed hat still perched on his head. 

He doesn’t seem to mind Zayn’s music, Kendrick’s ‘good kid, m.A.A.d city’ album on vinyl. Zayn hadn’t known Harry was capable of being this quiet, of being able to tell Zayn needs his space when he’s working. He does feel Harry’s eyes on his bare back whilst he works, though. 

Zayn doesn’t know how much time has passes until he’s sleepy and his shoulder aches with tiredness. He always gets lost when he’s painting, loses track of time to the point where he forgets what month it is. He steps away from his work, squinting critically at it. 

For a moment he forgets Harry’s there, his voice quiet but close behind Zayn’s ear when he says, “That’s sick.” 

Zayn jumps a little, almost hitting the paint-spattered little table his brushes and jar of dirty water are on. “Thanks,” he says, cheeks burning at how shy he sounds, like he’s back at school and his crush’s given him a compliment. It’s weird, having Harry see this side of him. 

“You never showed me your art last time,” Harry says, and Zayn’s surprised that he’d remembered that. It didn’t seem important, or like genuine interest, just something to say so Zayn would let him suck his cock. “It’s incredible.” 

Zayn rubs at the back of his neck. “You don’t have to say anything about it. It’s just something I enjoy.” 

“No, seriously, you’re really good,” Harry says, eyes bright and fierce, like he really wants Zayn to understand that he’s not fucking about. “What’s it about?” 

‘You’ is what Zayn wants to say, because it’s true; the colours are all Harry, pastels, the colours of his skin and eyes and lips and the jumper he’d been wearing that first night in Zayn’s bed. But that’s an odd thing to say to someone you’ve only met twice before. So Zayn shrugs a shoulder, folds his arms across his chest. “I don’t know, exactly. Lately, I’ve been painting in feelings. Things that stand out, the colours of them, trying to capture, like, the aura of it rather than a direct representation.” 

Harry looks impressed, has that confused line he gets between his eyebrows as he nods and pouts thoughtfully. “What’s this one of, if you don’t mind me asking?” 

‘You,’ Zayn wants to say again, but he doesn’t. He waits a beat too long to answer, but Harry continues, “It’s alright if you don’t want to tell me. I understand. Can I see more of your stuff?” 

“Uh, yeah, sure,” Zayn says, surprised at how genuinely interested Harry seems to be. He’s got tonnes of canvases turned against the wall; he hates looking at some of them, the feelings they bring up. 

They’re the ones he’d painted when his granddad died, the first incredibly abstract things he’d done. They’re all dark colours, angry brush strokes, quotes from the gangster films he and his granddad used to love watching on Friday nights. But some of them are sad, too. One of them is ‘naïvely’ painted eyes littering the canvas like a pattern, drippy effects coming from them. There are weird self-portraits, his naked form abstracted from his reflection after he’d fucked his first few clients. There’s one that’s simply his granddad’s name, ‘Walter’ in Arabic, just like he’s got tattooed now beneath his collarbone. 

It’s hard to believe he’d entered them into a show; they’re so vulnerable. He feels naked showing them to Harry even though Harry couldn't possibly begin to fathom what they’re truly about. The feelings he’d had whilst painting them still feel raw in his chest. They remind him of how sad he was, how sad he sometimes still is. 

He turns those ones away from Harry’s curious eyes as quickly as he can without it feeling too forceful, feels more comfortable looking at older stuff—portraits of Bruno Mars and Mickey Mouse with a spliff hanging out of his mouth, random painted graffiti from when he thought Banksy was the sickest thing out. 

“Can I have one?” Is the first thing Harry says when the silence breaks, pleadingly like a child at the toyshop. “I’ll pay you for it, whichever one you feel like getting rid of.” 

Zayn hadn’t expected that, laughs because Harry’s a quirky thing. It’s been a while since someone’s knocked Zayn off his feet like this. “Why? They’re not that good.”

“Yes, they are. I really like them,” Harry says, long legs folded in front of him, bony knees sticking out through the rips in his jeans. “I like collecting art, especially stuff people I’ve met make. It’s cool to be able to look back at them, remember how they made you feel and where you were at that particular point in your life.” 

Zayn’s so taken by Harry in that moment, both of them sat on the floor in his loft, J Cole’s ‘Born Sinner’ record on now, Jhene Aiko’s voice light like air through the loft. It’s the first time Zayn’s thought that maybe he and Harry might not be so dissimilar after all. 

So he kisses him, Harry’s tongue tasting of whisky and Coca Cola. Harry gasps into it, but he’s quick to kiss back, cups Zayn’s face with his big hands while Zayn’s disappear beneath his shirt, needing to touch skin. 

It’s the first night that they’ve spent together without fucking. 

It’s weird and it’s good, how they end up talking in Zayn’s bed until three in the morning, kissing when there’re lapses in conversation because they’re both in contemplative kinds of moods. They talk about art, how Harry feels sad sometimes but no one ever expects him to, how living in London can be lonely sometimes, and Zayn admits he’d painted the ‘depressing-looking ones’ after his granddad passed away. 

“I could tell those were sad paintings,” Harry says, locking his ankle with Zayn’s, feet like ice now that he’s taken his socks off, but Zayn doesn’t mind. “I hope you’re okay now.” 

Zayn feels more okay than he has in months. He kisses Harry on the cheek, scratches at his scalp through his curls and he swears Harry purrs like a cat. 

That night he sleeps so well he doesn’t even dream, Harry curled around him. 

 

&&

 

It’s been a week since Zayn’s replied to any of Harry’s texts. 

He needs a break from London, from all the oft-contradictory things he’s feeling all the time, and he misses his family. It’s good to be home, his heart feels content here. He’s missed the smell of cardamom in the kitchen; how Boris always wakes him up by licking his face, tail wagging a hundred miles per hour. He’s even missed his sisters screaming at each other. It’s like they’ve grown so much from the last time he’s seen them; his eyes widen when he overhears Waliyha on the phone talking about a boy in her Geography class asking her out on a date. She’s said yes.

His mum’s determined to fatten him up some before he heads back to London, and he’s more than happy to eat everything she makes and ask for seconds. He practices boxing with his dad and Danny in the backyard. He goes to mosque with his family and has dinner at his aunt’s house and smokes weed with his cousins in a car park at night, skins his knee fucking about on a skateboard. 

He feels good. He doesn’t need Harry to fill some hole he thinks he’s got. He’s got his family, people that will always have his back. Harry doesn’t even know what Zayn really does for money, so bloody laidback that he’s lying down, hasn’t cared to ask. Harry’s flighty, Zayn can tell that about him, that he’s one of those people who get bored easily. Harry mentions a different name each time he talks about whose futon he slept on after a show. 

Zayn knows Harry is fascinated by him: a fit, mysterious bloke with an expensive flat full of abstract paintings who’s always got weed and flecks of acrylic under his nails. He bets he tells all his friends when he puts a record on that Zayn introduced him to. He bet he tells Matty just to make him jealous, make him press him against a wall and remind him who his arse belongs to, those kind of fucked up relationships every indie rocker loves singing about.

He thinks Harry likes not knowing too much about him, makes it easier to move along when he gets bored of smoking weed and fucking because Zayn never wants to go out. And maybe he’s wrong, maybe Harry’s just as open-minded and chill as the languid way he goes about life implies that he is, but Harry’s a middle class boy from Cheshire whose accountant dad is paying his rent whilst he ‘figures himself out’ for a year instead of going to school. Harry’s as ‘English’ as they come and Zayn’s been spat at on the street and told to go back to his country. 

At the end of the day, they come from very different places. Zayn’s a rent boy from Bradford and Harry’ll probably settle down with a pretty girl who makes him forget all about his 21st century Mick Jagger act. 

It’s better this way, cutting Harry off when Zayn isn’t in _too_ deep. He’ll get over it and Harry will find someone else to romanticise when Matty’s too busy for him. 

Boris nudges at his half-open door, poking his wrinkly head in and then padding over when he sees Zayn’s still awake, jumping into the bed so he can slobber all over Zayn’s face. Zayn laughs, scratching him behind his ears. He feels like a kid again, surrounded by all his superhero posters in the room he’s had all his life.

“I love you, Boris,” Zayn says, kissing Boris on his wet nose. Boris pants happily, tongue out as Zayn pats his head. “You’re not complicated. Dogs are sick.” 

Boris barks. Zayn shushes him. Everyone’s gone to bed. 

“Maybe I should get a dog in London,” Zayn says. “Or a cat.”

Boris makes a whining sound in the back of his throat.

“Yeah, you’re right. Dogs are better.” 

Boris looks content with that.

 

&&

 

Zayn’s never been good at resisting temptation. He turns his read receipts off and opens Harry’s texts on the tube to Philip’s, the same texts he’d been determined not to open because it’d be punishing himself.

 _‘Are you free tonight?’_

_‘Eating 5 bananas at once is not a good idea…’_

_’Hope you’re well. Its been a while xx’_

_‘Did I do something to upset you?’_

_‘Okay…’_

_‘Clearly I did. Can we talk about it?_

_‘I’m sorry.’_

He’s sent pictures, too, of all sorts of things, like padded handcuffs and the Mickey Mouse painting Zayn gave him hung up on the wall in his bedroom. 

Zayn misses him. 

Philip’s latest toy boy’s left him, fucked off back to Spain because his plans of modelling in London hadn’t gone the way he’d hoped. It’s left Philip in the rare mood to mess about, and Zayn’s grateful for the distraction, Philip’s mouth hot and wet around his cock, long nails digging into the meat of Zayn’s thighs. 

 

&&

 

Eleanor looks surprised to see him when she answers the door, bun high up on her head and wearing a plain black dress that slips off her thin shoulders. She’s always been the kind of girl who looks put-together in the simplest outfits, effortlessly chic. For the millionth time Zayn wonders how she’s been with Louis for the past three years. They’ve only just convinced him that socks really do help the smell when you wear trainers. 

“Was just on my way out,” she says, pulling Zayn into a hug before toeing holographic looking kitten heels on, reaching for the purse that’s slung on the coatrack. “Having a girls’ night and running late.” 

“Am I invited?” Zayn teases.

“No nerds allowed, sorry,” she laughs, twisting to yell, “Louis! Zayn’s here!” over her shoulder before kissing Zayn’s cheek and hurrying off in a blur of perfume and hair. 

Louis pops out of the bedroom and into the living room, wearing pyjama bottoms and a worn jumper. Eleanor’d finally convinced him to give up the hole in the wall he and Stan have lived in since Louis dropped out of uni and move in with her. It’d been all mismatched furniture they found along the way, including an armchair that smelled of cat piss no matter how much they’d tried to clean it and a taxidermy duck. 

It’s like Louis’ been domesticated, standing in a room that he’s in every day where the decorating’s been so thought out that there are _accent pieces_. Zayn never thought he’d see the day.

“Haven’t seen you in a while, mate. What’s been happening?” Louis says, immediately coming over to hug him. When he pulls away, his eyes narrow as he takes Zayn in. “You look like you’ve got a lot on your mind.” 

“I might need someone to talk to, yeah.”

“Clearly,” Louis folds his arms. “Where’ve you really been? You never have time to hang out anymore. Getting high with Liam sucks. All he does is get really paranoid and ask _the_ most annoying questions I swear—sorry, I’m on a rant now. What’s really been going on?” 

Zayn sighs. “You remember that party I went to, the one Simon Cowell was at?” 

“Yeah, that was a while ago, with Ben, innit?”

“I sort of met someone there and I think I handled it badly.” 

Louis raises his eyebrows.

Zayn tells him everything, from fucking in the loo to Harry making Zayn want to paint until his fingers bleed to how it’s like the bit of sunshine he’d had is gone because he’s not even back in the slump he was used to. It’s worse now that he’s had his rock, someone to hold and ground him in ways Louis can’t, and he’s thrown it all away because he hates letting himself be vulnerable. Louis lets him talk until there’s nothing left to say, their fingers curled around mugs of cooling tea in the middle of Eleanor’s kitchen. 

“Christ, Malik,” Louis says, after a longer pause than Zayn would’ve liked, “what the fuck?” 

“I know—“ 

“You didn’t even give him a chance. You didn’t even give yourself a chance.”

“I know—“

“You’ve got to fix this. He clearly makes you happy, so get your head out of your arse and fucking fix it. You never let anyone in, and I get that, you’ve not got the easiest job in the world, but you can’t just decide for someone that they don’t want you after they’ve been sleeping in your bed every night. I don’t think you realise how you can be, how hard it is to read you sometimes; this poor bloke probably had no idea what you were thinking either, Zayn.” 

“It’s too late, mate, I haven’t replied to him in weeks—“

Louis looks unimpressed, his voice deceptively sweet. “Zayn, love?”

Zayn swallows. “What?” 

“Fix it.” 

“But—“

“Stop fucking overthinking everything and fucking fix it.”


	4. 4

Harry’s hair is still wet from the shower, and he shakes it out like he’s some kind of shaggy, overgrown dog, droplets spattering across Zayn’s face and chest. Zayn can’t do anything but laugh, tangling his hands in it as Harry gets on top of him, the towel that was knotted around his waist falling to the floor. 

Zayn’s noticed Harry has a thing for sucking at his bottom lip when they kiss, pulling it between his teeth before letting their tongues slide together, and then he does it some more in between, tugging at it so hard that it’s red and puffy well into the next morning. It drives Zayn mad, in a very good way, makes him drag his nails up Harry’s sides and buck his hips up, his cock digging in to Harry’s hipbone.

It’s late, somewhere between midnight and sunrise. Zayn had been catching up on his reading when Harry tumbled in after work with a big hat on and a bag of leftover Noodle Oodle that he’d dumped on the coffee table and told Zayn to finish because Zayn doesn’t always remember to eat three proper meals. Zayn would’ve been offended if his stomach didn’t growl at the smell of fried rice and spicy chicken and two cold spring rolls. 

He tries not to think too much about the way his chest tightens at Harry picking up the little things about him, tells himself it’s not a big deal, that most people would’ve noticed.

Harry’d been happy to serve it onto a plate and heat it up in the microwave before burying his nose in his own book, Zayn eating with the telly on. And then they’d gone to bed, Harry holding Zayn’s legs open in the crooks of his elbows, fucking into him with slow rolls of his hips that made Zayn see explosions with his eyes closed, unable to keep his hands off his cock. 

“You wanna fuck again?” Zayn asks, tucking a lock of hair behind Harry’s ear. Harry’s always up for another round, even if they’ve got to rush before he’s due at work, arse up over the kitchen table with borrowed pyjama bottoms around his ankles. 

“Maybe,” Harry hums, teasingly, ducking his head in to run his tongue over one of Zayn’s nipples, lapping until it’s gone stiff and tight. 

Zayn squeezes the back of his neck. “Just maybe?” 

Harry laughs, shifting so that their cocks are trapped between them, rubbing against each other when Harry nips at Zayn’s neck. Zayn grabs his arse, grinds up purposefully so that Harry grinds back down, rutting together like they’re too desperate to slow down. Harry trails his mouth back up Zayn’s jaw, sinking his teeth into Zayn’s still-sore bottom lip. 

Harry’s one of those blokes that gets _wet_ , leaks so much pre-come that Zayn imagines it’s what it’s like when people talk about wet cunts. But it’s useful when Zayn wraps a hand around them both, Harry slicking his palm just enough that it doesn’t drag as they both fuck into Zayn’s fist. 

Zayn’s looking down between them, loves the way their dicks look pressed together, Harry’s longer, but Zayn’s thick, flushed pink where Zayn’s is darker, Harry’s foreskin pulled back and Zayn circumcised. The butterfly Harry’s got tattooed on his ribcage shifts on top of the muscle beneath it, the pendant of his chain hitting his chest. He loves looking at Harry’s body, his thick biceps and bony wrists, long legs and the puppy fat clinging to his hips even though he’s got decent abs, keeps fit in the gym and goes on jogs. 

“You wanna ride me?” Harry asks, hair curling wetly against his shoulders. He smells like Zayn’s shampoo. 

“Yeah,” Zayn says, reaching over for the lube on the bedside table and getting a condom out of the drawer. He rolls the condom onto Harry with a practiced ease that would make him self-conscious if Harry didn’t moan and tug at his own nipple, sloppily sucking on Zayn’s tongue as Zayn spread lube onto his dick. 

He gets onto his back, pulling Zayn on top of him. “You want me to finger you?” 

Zayn shakes his head. “No, I’m good—we did it a few hours ago, you randy bastard.” 

Harry snorts. “I’ll go slow.” 

It’s always a stretch, taking Harry, but Zayn’s got good control of his muscles, relaxes into it until Harry’s all the way inside. Harry watches him with awed eyes, mumbling about how hot Zayn is, how good he feels, how tight he is, and Zayn can barely find words, just moans as Harry hits at just the right angle, making Zayn grab his shoulders and bounce on his cock. 

Zayn’s close, he’s so fucking close, the room suddenly upside down and then right side up again when Harry switches them, Zayn on his back and Harry slamming in hard and erratic, intently staring down at Zayn’s face as he curls his fingers around Zayn’s dick, tugging him off with that same wild rhythm he’s got to his hips. Zayn is relieved when Harry’s eyes slip shut; sometimes Zayn doesn’t know how to feel with the unwavering way Harry looks at him. 

Harry comes first, but he doesn’t waste any time pulling out, getting between Zayn’s legs and sliding his hot mouth down his cock, two fingers fucking in and out of Zayn’s slick, fucked-out hole. It doesn’t take long for Zayn to start pulling his hair, holding Harry’s head down so he can come in down his throat. 

“You’re so amazing,” Harry says, kissing Zayn’s thigh. His hair’s a mess, sticking out from here Zayn held onto it, the rest of it dried to form wild curlicues. 

It makes Zayn’s heart skip a beat when Harry says things like that. He can feel himself smiling like an idiot, so he throws an arm across his face as Harry gets up to bin the condom. 

Zayn’s exhausted, exhausted and grateful that the only client he’s got tomorrow is Dr Charles Adewale, married, closeted lecturer at the London School of Economics, which means Zayn’s definitely not going to be the one getting fucked should penetration be involved. He’s so sore from meeting with Ben earlier and Harry having a go twice that it’ll take great effort not to walk funny in the morning. He hates himself for wishing it were just Harry responsible for that. 

The bathroom light clicks off and Harry comes back to bed, a lazy sprawl of limbs as he throws a leg over Zayn’s, resting his head on Zayn’s shoulder and yawning into his neck. 

“What made you get this?” Harry asks, letting his fingers glide over the pistol tattooed on Zayn’s side. It takes Zayn a moment to catch up. “Seems a bit violent.” 

“What made you get a bloody butterfly on your stomach?” Zayn counters, poking it in the middle, making Harry jump. Ticklish pest. 

Harry shrugs, talking around another yawn. “Wanted something classic, but also something different, that I could hide from my mum after the fit she threw when I started getting bigger pieces done on my arm. What about you?” 

“Looked cool, and I like how it looks when I’ve got trousers on.” 

“It suits you, sort of.” 

Zayn raises an eyebrow. “Sort of?” 

“You’re not as hard as you pretend you are sometimes.” 

Zayn doesn’t answer, pressing his thumb into one of the birthmarks on Harry’s ribs, next to his butterfly. “These make you look like you’ve got four nipples.” 

“I actually do have four nipples,” Harry says, with more seriousness than such an admission warrants. 

Zayn rubs it. “Does it feel like getting your other nipples played with?”

“Not really. But it definitely feels different from the rest of my skin being touched.” 

He lets out a barking laugh when Zayn shifts, running his tongue over it until Harry’s batting him away, but his legs are tight around Zayn’s hips so he doesn’t actually get too far. 

“You’re so weird,” Zayn says as Harry kisses his mouth.

“You like it, though.” 

“Yeah,” Zayn agrees. “I’m a bit weird, too. That’s why I like having you around, makes me feel normal.” 

“You’re a different kind of weird, though. You’re a geek; I had a look at your bookshelf and it’s like, mostly comic books.”

Zayn’s chest does that thing again, that thing it always does when Harry makes an observation about him, something someone you’ve gotten close to would notice without you having said it. He has to remind himself that it’s not a big deal; everyone knows Zayn loves comics and video games and superheroes, but when Harry says it because he’s spent so much time in Zayn’s flat, long enough to browse his books when Zayn’s in the toilet, or notice the string of action figures on Zayn’s computer desk, it feels different. 

It makes Zayn think about all the little things he knows about Harry, too. He knows Harry calls his mum every day because he misses her terribly even if he never wants to leave the excitement of London to take a train up to Holmes Chapel and see her. He knows Harry pulls at his bottom lip when he’s thinking about something or when he’s nervous and he doesn’t know what to do with his hands. He knows Harry likes to draw, too, little sketches in the journal he writes things in, that he could probably be good at it, too, if he wanted. 

He knows Harry likes when people like him, and he goes out of his way to make them if they don’t. He cares a lot about what everyone thinks despite the easy way he goes about things; he cares that his dad thinks he’s wasting time and he needs to start school; he cares about how his mum doesn’t want him getting anymore tattoos; he cares that people in his social group think he’s cool and interesting; he cares about his outfits even though they often look like shit he’s just thrown on. 

He cares a lot about being perceived the right way, apologises for jokes and then explains what he’d meant just in case. He cares about Zayn, too; shows that in all of his own ways, from bringing Zayn food to giving him his space when he thinks Zayn needs it. He’s always careful not to push too hard.

Harry’s fallen asleep, snuffling against Zayn’s collarbone, and Zayn allows himself to press a gentle kiss to the top of Harry’s head. He knows he likes him more than he should given the fragile nature of this thing they’ve built. 

 

&&

 

Despite Louis’ typically blunt advice, Zayn still hasn’t tried to contact Harry.

He’d rather let it go unresolved and let time take care of the rest, than call Harry out of the blue, after Harry’s had enough time to get over him and carry on his weird little life. Someone like Harry doesn’t wait around. Harry isn’t like Zayn; people are drawn to Harry’s warm smile and eyes touches, and Zayn’s sure there are always people waiting to have all of his attention. Zayn isn’t even sure Harry’d felt the same intense feelings Zayn had.

Sometimes he’s sure Harry did, but he doesn’t know. Harry can be guarded whilst wearing a disarming grin. It takes Zayn rethinking moments over and over again to properly realise that. He thinks sometimes, that Harry was afraid Zayn would hurt him, too, if he let him in too much. It’s why he’d talk about Matty sometimes, or mention a fit girl, after Zayn brushed off an invitation to visit Harry’s flat instead, let Harry cook him a Sunday roast or take him to an exhibition. 

_‘I don’t know why you keep doubting it when it’s bloody well obvious to anyone with a brain that he had feelings for you, you were just too scared to do anything about it and now he thinks you don’t want anything to do with him,’_ Louis’d said that day in Eleanor’s black and white kitchen, digging into a packet of prawn crisps. _‘The longer you let this sit, the more likely it is that he’s gone for good. Is that what you want, mate?’_

_‘No,’_ Zayn’d said back, miserably. 

At this point, Zayn knows he’s more afraid of finding out that he’d missed his chance, of being rejected, than he is of anything else. He’s never dealt with rejection very well, and it’s worse when he knows he deserves it. He’d been difficult and too busy wallowing in self-pity to see what was right in front of him. He’d misjudged Harry and that’s the worst, especially when he knows how important it is to Harry that people give him a fair chance. 

But missing Harry hasn’t been all black rain clouds, even if it feels like it most of the time. He’s used the empty feeling of the cold pillow beside him and the long strands of hair he still finds clinging wetly to the tiles in the shower to paint. Harry’s always been something of a muse, even when he’s gone. 

It takes time, but Zayn gets used to being alone, and being at peace with being alone, when he comes home from an afternoon of stuffing his cock into a tiny pair of knickers for Philip. At first he just smokes a lot of weed so he doesn’t have to think about anything, but then his soul itches with the need to create, and finally make something of his need, so he begins to paint more than he works. 

He stops seeing Dr Adewale because he needs more time to himself. He makes an effort to see Louis more, ends up tagging along when Louis meets up with Niall and Liam for drinks on Friday nights. He hadn’t expected it to happen, but they all become friends. Niall’s easy to love, vaguely reminds Zayn of Harry in that way, but most things do these days. He’s funny, has an infectious laugh. And Liam has always been a bit trickier to figure out, but the more they chat, the more it Zayn discovers that they have things in common. Liam’s girlfriend’s broken up with him (‘Again,’ Louis helpfully adds), and Zayn relates to that empty feeling more than he’d like to, the way that they’re both trying to pretend they’re alright with pints and shots and friends. 

One night they pull away from Louis and Niall to talk over Zayn’s last three fags, and it’s then that Zayn really _gets_ Liam. He’s more sensitive and thoughtful than he’s come across. His bird’s name is Sophia and he shows Zayn pictures of her, and them, on his phone. They’ve been together a year. She’s spent Christmas with his family, been to his sister’s graduation. She’s pretty, long hair, diamond earrings sparkling. She looks like one of Eleanor’s fashionable friends. 

Zayn doesn’t want to tell Liam too much, not right now when they’re only beginning to figure each other out, sat on the pavement in front of a pub, but he does tell Liam about Harry. Liam looks like he doesn’t know how to react when Zayn says the person he can’t get out of his head is a bloke, but he quickly recovers, puts his hand on Zayn’s shoulder. He’s not like Louis, who tells Zayn what he already knows and won’t do, just tells him that love is complicated and that if they’d really felt so strongly about each other, this probably isn’t the end. And then he shares that he and his last girlfriend, Danielle had been through all kinds of things like that, says sometimes he thinks he still loves her, too.

Zayn’s grateful for the optimism. 

Liam invites Zayn to his flat to watch Marvel films, and Zayn’s so pissed he has to catch himself because he starts giving Liam the number he uses for ‘work’. But Liam does keep up on his drunken promise, and Zayn comes round and drinks Pimm’s and laughs as Liam quotes films word for word. He does an ace Tony Stark voice. 

It’s nice, letting people in. It’s been so long since he’s let himself. He wishes he’d done it sooner. 

 

&&

 

Weeks turn into months. Zayn measures his time in the paintings he’s done since Harry’s absence. He’s stopped seeing Philip, too. He hadn’t been sure how to cut Philip off; he’s always had a soft spot for him and his fascinating stories and pearls of wisdom, hadn’t wanted it to be a cold goodbye. But Philip is nothing if not perceptive, and the last time Zayn’d stepped out of the bathroom, face still wet from scrubbing a face full of makeup off, Philip had said, _‘I won’t be seeing you again, will I, love?’_ ‘I’m leaving the business.’

_‘Brilliant. You’ve always been too good for it.’_

Philip hugged him tight like Zayn was his son leaving home for uni rather than the escort he’s been seeing for the past year and a half. And then he’d said he’d always be there should Zayn need him, wrote him a cheque and folded it neatly, pressing it into Zayn’s palm. 

Zayn almost cried on the tube home when he saw how much Philip’d signed off on, handwriting as elegant and neat as his home.

Ben’s the only client he’s kept seeing. These days he doesn’t know if it’s still because of lingering feelings or if it’s because he’s scared to grind to a full halt, kiss his quick money goodbye. 

“Your hair’s so long now,” Ben says, running his fingers through it. They’re lying in bed, the curtains drawn, hotel sheets draped across their hips. Zayn used to melt at Ben’s gentle touch, tell himself that maybe it meant something more when Ben was careful with him, tracing the contours of his cheekbones or just holding him close as they drifted to sleep. 

Even when he knew better, when he learnt the hard way, he’d still held onto a string of hope that Ben would fall for him someday. 

But now, staring down at the freckles dusting Ben’s cheeks and his hazel eyes and dark chest hair, Zayn’s heart doesn’t do that tiny ache it always does. He feels free now, like he could do anything, like if he ran fast enough he’d sprout wings and fly. 

“Trying something new,” Zayn says. “Got tired of the clean, quiffed-up, pretty boy look.”

“I liked that look,” Ben says like Zayn doesn’t know. Ben’s the reason Zayn’s often kept his face shaved clean, hair neat. It’s a miracle Ben had even stayed interested in him after he’d started getting covered in tattoos.

“I know. But it doesn’t feel like me anymore.” 

“Guess not, shaggy hair works better with your artistic phase, I’d imagine?” He holds Zayn’s wrist, hand big and warm as he inspects Zayn’s fingers. “You’ve always got paint beneath your nails.” 

Zayn feels annoyance twisting in his stomach. “It’s not a phase. I’ve always painted. My dad’s side of the family’s all artistic.” 

Ben smiles at him, patronising. Suddenly Zayn feels what he’s always felt: Ben doesn’t take him seriously. He never has. Zayn’s always been something pretty to fuck and coddle and he’d been stupid to ever hope for anything more. 

“Don’t get stroppy, pet,” Ben laughs. “I’m not trying to belittle you. It’s just that you’re quite young, and I know how passing fancies are at your age; you still haven’t even gone back to uni—”

Zayn shuts him up with a kiss because he doesn’t want to hear anymore. He’s heard enough. He’s heard all he needs to know. It’s rough. He bites Ben’s bottom lip and Ben grabs his arse, trying to roll him onto his back. But Zayn doesn’t want that, not tonight. He feels like he has a lot to say and the only way he can say it is with his body. 

He drags his nails down Ben’s chest when he rides him, bouncing on his cock like he’s got something to prove, wild and angry. He rolls his hips hard, leaves marks when he grips Ben’s arms or digs his nails in too deep, and Ben loves it, looks up at Zayn with bright, awed eyes, mouth slack as he says ‘Zayn, Zayn, fuck, Zayn’. 

He cranes his neck, trying to kiss Zayn or suck at his nipple or lick his neck. But Zayn doesn’t want that, just wants to make Ben come hard and fast. He doesn’t want Ben to know what’s hit him. He thinks he’ll always remember the startled look on Ben’s face when his orgasm hits, Zayn’s delicate-looking hands pushing him down against the mattress, neck craned for another bruising kiss he doesn’t get. 

Zayn gets off him, makes his way to the en suite to wash this night off his skin, his cock still hard. 

“That was,” Ben pauses to lick his lips. “That was incredible. I mean, you always are but, wow. What’s got into you?” 

Zayn looks up from lacing his boots, shrugging a shoulder. “Gotta go out with a bang, right?” 

Ben frowns. “Go out with a bang?” 

“I can’t see you anymore. I’m done with,” Zayn gestures vaguely. “All of this. Escorting. I’m done. Guess it was just another one of those phases you mentioned.” 

“Oh,” is all that Ben can find to say. He’s not the sort of person used to having the rug pulled from under him, has always had that air of arrogance old money allows. It’s funny, watching him try to keep his expression schooled as he processes all that’s happened. 

They finish getting dressed in silence. It’s as awkward as it is satisfying. 

Ben catches Zayn by the elbow as he’s about to leave, says, “I do care for you, you know. This doesn’t have to be goodbye.” 

Zayn kisses Ben’s cheek. “Maybe.” 

Zayn’s shaking as he takes the lift down to the lobby, but it feels good. It feels like everything’s been leading up to this moment. He feels like he’s finally in control of himself, his own destiny. He can start anew; do what he’s always wanted; be who he’s wanted. He can stop lying to his mum and dad; he can focus on his art, get his career off the ground.

He feels so happy and hopeful, heart beating fast. He gets his phone out, hovers his thumb over Harry’s name like he’s done so many times before. But this time he’s not too scared to hit ‘call’. He’s ready to hear Harry’s voice again, move forward with him, even if Harry shatters his still-recovering heart by not wanting to come back, he’ll understand. But he’d have closure, and it’s been a long time coming. He’s tired of constantly being on edge. 

He doesn’t even know what he’s going to say, but it doesn’t matter, he figures the words will just spill on their own when he hears Harry on the other end.

It all comes crashing down, though, when an automated voice informs him that the number he’s rang is no longer in service. 

 

&&

 

Harry isn’t on Facebook. Zayn can’t find him on twitter or Instagram or anything that makes sense. It’s like he doesn’t exist outside of Zayn’s memories. 

Wherever he is, Zayn hopes he’s happy, safe, and warm and loved. Zayn hopes if Harry still thinks of him, it’s fond.

 

&&

 

Zayn takes a deep pull on his joint, letting the thick smoke burn his throat and fill his lungs before blowing it out and then sucking it back in again. He taps the ashes into the jar of dirty water he’s been dipping his paintbrush into, eyes dragging lazily across the canvas. He’s still not certain this painting’s done yet. 

“Looks sick, mate,” Liam says from the sofa, looking away from where he’s losing to Niall and Louis at FIFA. They’d come over to keep Zayn company while he works, help keep him motivated because he’s got to have his work mounted in the morning.

He’d got into contact with other artists, and somehow everything’s come together and they’re putting a show on at Blackall Studios in Shoreditch. Zayn’s got a wall to himself. His family’s coming down to see it and everything. He’s been posting some work on the Internet, getting positive feedback and people interested in his work. 

“You think it looks finished?” Zayn asks, stepping farther back, joint hanging from his mouth. 

“I’d reckon so,” Niall says, coming over with a big smile. “You’ve been working on it ages.” 

“No one will be able to tell if it’s not anyway,” Louis says from the sofa. “It’s abstract. People are already eating your shit up, just name it something edgy and you’re in.” 

Zayn glares at him, taking another deep drag. 

“Can you pass that over here, love?” Louis bats his eyelashes. Zayn rolls his eyes. “You know you love me.” 

“You’re such a wanker,” Zayn says, but he toddles over anyway, limbs loose, head hazy, lets Louis grab the joint with greedy fingers and take a deep pull that’s got him coughing and reaching for his drink before passing it to Niall. 

Zayn knows them all well enough by now to know that he shan’t be getting it back until it’s burnt down to a roach. 

“Wankers,” he says again, fond, turning on his heel to roll himself a new one when there’s a loud series of knocks against the front door. 

“You expectin’ more company?” Niall asks through a plume of smoke. “Should I put this out?” 

Zayn frowns, looking down at himself. He hasn’t got a shirt on, an old pair of paint smattered joggers riding low on his hips, the waistband of his Calvin Klein boxers visible above the waist. He offers Niall an exaggerated movement that’s half shrug, half ‘I don’t know what’s happening’, and then he goes to answer the door, not bothering with a shirt. 

His heart jumps into his throat when he sees who’s on the other side. 

It’s Harry, leant up against the wall, dripping wet with rain. His hair’s longer, curling damp around his shoulders, the white shirt he’s wearing, patterned with little motorcycles and unbuttoned so low half his butterfly tattoo’s out, is so soaked it’s like he’s not wearing a shirt at all. He looks cold and pale, nose red, pea coat blue. He looks like everything Zayn’s ever wanted, sniffling and glassy-eyed and scared. 

“I just needed to see you, but I can go—” 

Zayn can smell the vodka on his breath, but he doesn’t care, he can’t let Harry leave again. He doesn’t know which of them has started this kiss, but he’s got Harry in his arms, cold and wet and smelling of rain and booze. But his lips are just as soft as Zayn remembers, and he never wants to miss this again. Harry cups his face with his big, soft hands, biting Zayn’s bottom lip like no time’s passed between them.

Zayn wrenches his fingers in the stiff collar of Harry’s coat, pulling him in until they’re as close as they can be, drowning himself in Harry, Harry, _Harry._ He forgets about everything that isn’t Harry or the taste of Harry’s lips for a moment. He no longer hears the Jay Sean record he’d put on or the Niall telling Louis to lick his bollocks after losing another round at FIFA. 

Fuck. Zayn forgot they weren’t alone. 

He pulls away from Harry, looking back to see Niall and Liam and Louis staring at them with raised eyebrows. Liam blinks, high and decidedly unsure he’s processing what he’s seeing. 

“So, this is Harry, then?” Louis says. 

“Er, yeah,” Zayn says. Harry looks unsure, but he lets Zayn slide a hand down his back, guide him further in with a hand on his back. “This is Louis, my best mate. And that’s Niall and Liam.” 

Harry gives a small wave, flashing a tight smile that doesn’t quite meet his eyes. He then turns to Zayn. “Can I use the bathroom?” 

“Yeah, sure, babe,” Zayn says. Harry looks relieved, less sad, when Zayn calls him ‘babe’, takes his coat off with uncoordinated hands. Zayn takes it from him, hanging it up by the rack. 

“I’ll see you lot tomorrow, yeah?” Zayn says, swiping the remote off the coffee table, switching the TV off. 

“Yeah, that’s probably a good idea,” Liam says, standing. 

They don’t argue, get their coats on, shove their feet into their trainers. They all know, some more than others, that Zayn’s been stuck on Harry for ages. It’s the first time they’ve seen him, but they also know that it’s the first time Zayn’s seen him in months, too. They know how much he needs this, but they’re apprehensive it’ll end any better than it did last. 

“Call me in the morning, yeah?” Louis says at the door, giving Zayn’s arm a reassuring squeeze. 

“Of course, mate,” Zayn nods. 

“Good luck.” 

“I didn’t mean to make your friends leave,” Harry says when he returns to the living room, joining Zayn on the sofa that’s still warm from where the others had been perched on it. 

Zayn presses a glass of water into Harry’s hands. “Are you up for talking right now? You’re pissed.” 

“We need to talk, though. I’m pissed enough to show up at your door after you’ve been ignoring me, but I’m not that pissed.”

“I shouldn’t have cut you off like that,” Zayn says, watching Harry take a sip of water. “You didn’t deserve that.” 

“Why did you? I never really knew how you felt about me, but I thought you at least liked me enough not to do something like that.” 

Zayn’s heart breaks. “I know. I should’ve been honest with you, and I wasn’t, and I didn’t know what to do so I just… I fucked up. And I’m sorry. I know it’s a lot to ask you to forgive me, but that’s all I’ve got.” 

“I just wanna know why. I really liked you, Zayn.” 

Zayn winces at ‘liked’. Harry notices, letting a small laugh ripple through him. “I still like you. If I weren’t so mad over you there’s no way I would’ve come over here.” 

“I tried to call you, eventually, after I got my head out of my arse, but your number changed.” 

“I got really pissed and dropped my phone in the toilet at Dalston.” 

“You would,” Zayn snorts, wanting to reach out and touch him.

Harry smiles back, pushing his wet fringe off his face. “Yeah.”

But Zayn can’t touch him yet, not until they’ve talked. 

“I have to tell you something, like, about me. It’s why I always kept you at arm’s reach, and I don’t want to do that anymore.” 

Harry cradles his water in his hands, eyes bright and expectant. 

Zayn can’t look away from him. He’s pictured having this conversation a million times in a million different ways, but now that it’s happening he doesn’t know how to use his words. He’s not ready for Harry to leave again, and he’s scared that he will. 

“When I met you, that first night with Ben,” Zayn swallows. Harry’s looking at him so intently he feels like he can see his bones through his skin. “I was there, because, because he paid me to be. I was an escort. I’d been doing it for a couple years now. I quit recently but… I’d been doing for the entire time I’ve known you for. You always wondered how I had such a nice flat, and that’s how I paid for it. I didn’t tell you because I was embarrassed and I never thought I’d actually end up fancying you as much as I do.” 

Harry doesn’t look stunned like Zayn’d expected him to. He doesn’t look angry or sad or anything in particular, either. He just looks cold and sleepy in his wet motorcycle print shirt. 

“I’d never have asked you to stop if you were safe and happy doing it,” Harry finally says. “I love you, Zayn. God knows I’ve probably slept with just as many people as you have and all I have to show for it is a lack of gag reflex.” 

Zayn snorts. Harry is ridiculous and weird and _fuck_ , Zayn can finally admit he loves him because Harry’s said it first on a rainy night after they haven’t talked in months and Zayn’s finally come clean. 

“I understand why you hadn’t told me, things were complicated and that’s quite heavy. I just wished you’d have trusted me and gave me a chance before you pushed me away. But I don’t care, what’s done is done, I’ve missed you so much.” 

“What about Matty?” Zayn can’t help but ask. They’ve got to clear everything this time.

“Matty and I were never serious, Zayn. I thought you’d have noticed that after I started spending all my spare time with you. Hadn’t you noticed I’d stopped talking about him, stopped having love bites that you didn’t leave?” 

“Guess I’d been too stupid to see that,” Zayn laughs, sliding his hand up Harry’s thigh. 

“You’ve got to stop shutting me out. If you want this to work, we have to be open with each other. Stop assuming things, stop hiding things from me. You’ll always be enough. Do you know how hard it’s been, staying away when I work right up the road from here?” 

“Okay,” Zayn says, sliding closer, kissing Harry’s cheek. “I love you, too, alright? I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you. You got me to start painting again; I quit that rent boy shit because all I wanted was you, and I wanted to be someone you could be proud of. I’ve entered work in a gallery, have to get it mounted in the morning and everything; want you to come see it.” 

Zayn doesn’t realise he’s crying until Harry’s wiping the tear sliding down his cheek with his thumb. 

“I just want you to be happy, Zayn. You seem so much happier now, and that makes me happy. I’m glad I was a part of that, even if I wasn’t really here.” 

“There’s so much more I wanna tell you, babe.”

“We’ve got time. I’m not going anywhere, I promise.” 

Zayn makes Harry pinky swear.

 

&&

 

More people than Zayn’d anticipated show up at opening night. It’s both nerve wracking and exhilarating watching people look at work you’ve poured your heart and soul into, quietly taking it in or turning to their friends to ask what they think. It’s hard sometimes, telling whether they like it or not. Zayn finds not knowing harder than when they crinkle their noses in distaste. He tries not to linger at his own wall too long, makes small talk with the other artists, but it’s been an eternity since he’s shown his art like this. He wants to take everything in. 

His mum and dad and sisters are here, as well, all dressed up and proud. They’ve already congratulated him and taken at least a thousand pictures of them all in front of his paintings, and then they’d gone to look at the rest of the exhibition. His dad tells Zayn his work’s the best before he even looks at the others. Zayn laughs so hard his stomach hurts. He’d missed his dad a lot.

“Hey,” Harry says, popping up at Zayn’s side with a glass of wine. 

Zayn kisses him on the mouth. “Glad you could make it.” 

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” Harry says in that earnest drawl of his. “I’ve missed enough.” 

Zayn smiles. “You have.” 

Harry goes over to the biggest painting, the canvas a mess of green strokes. Zayn watches him tilt his head, leaning in to read the title beside it. It’s called ‘It gets harder to remember the colour of your eyes’. He suddenly wishes it weren’t so easy for Harry to piece together that it’s about him, with his stupidly pretty green eyes. 

He turns to look at Zayn. “Is this about me?” 

“Who else would it be about?” 

Harry shrugs, but he’s grinning. “I don’t know.” 

“Lots of them are about you.” 

“You’ll have to show me someday.” 

“I will. My fam’s taking me out for dinner after, if you want to come along?” 

Harry’s gaze softens. “I’d love to. I just, thanks for letting me in Zayn. You’ve always been amazing, but you’re lovelier now.” 

Zayn wraps an arm around Harry’s waist. “You make me better.” 

 

&&

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone for sticking around even though I've been terrible at updating. I hope you enjoy the entire thing now that it's over :)


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